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The Little Warrior
By
P.G. Wodehouse
Contents
1.
Freddie Rooke gaz=
ed
coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming eye-glass he inspected the
revolting object which Parker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate befo=
re
him.
"Parker!&quo=
t;
His voice had a ring of pain.
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"What's
this?"
"Poached egg,
sir."
Freddie averted h=
is
eyes with a silent shudder.
"It looks ju=
st
like an old aunt of mine," he said. "Remove it!"
He got up, and,
wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a stand in front of=
the
fireplace. From this position he surveyed the room, his shoulders against t=
he
mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club-fender. It was a cheerful oasis i=
n a
chill and foggy world, a typical London bachelor's breakfast-room. The walls
were a restful gray, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement =
in
white and silver.
"Eggs,
Parker," said Freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!"
"Yes, sir?&q=
uot;
"If, on the
morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all right. If not, not.
And don't let anybody tell you otherwise."
"No, sir.&qu=
ot;
Freddie pressed t=
he
palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed.
"It would se=
em,
then, that I must have revelled a trifle whole-heartedly last night. I was
possibly a little blotto. Not whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. D=
id I
make much noise coming in?"
"No, sir. You
were very quiet."
"Ah! A dashed
bad sign!"
Freddie moved to =
the
table, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
"The cream-j=
ug
is to your right, sir," said the helpful Parker.
"Let it rema=
in
there. Cafe noir for me this morning. As noir as it can jolly well stick!&q=
uot;
Freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped delicately. "As far as I c=
an
remember, it was Ronny Devereux' birthday or something . . ."
"Mr Martyn's=
, I
think you said, sir."
"That's righ=
t.
Algy Martyn's birthday, and Ronny and I were the guests. It all comes back =
to
me. I wanted Derek to roll along and join the festivities--he's never met
Ronny--but he gave it a miss. Quite right! A chap in his position has
responsibilities. Member of Parliament and all that. Besides," said
Freddie earnestly, driving home the point with a wave of his spoon, "h=
e's
engaged to be married. You must remember that, Parker!"
"I will ende=
avor
to, sir."
"Sometimes,&=
quot;
said Freddie dreamily, "I wish I were engaged to be married. Sometimes=
I
wish I had some sweet girl to watch over me and . . . No, I don't, by Jove!=
It
would give me the utter pip! Is Sir Derek up yet, Parker?"
"Getting up,
sir."
"See that
everything is all right, will you? I mean as regards the foodstuffs and what
not. I want him to make a good breakfast. He's got to meet his mother this
morning at Charing Cross. She's legging it back from the Riviera."
"Indeed, sir=
?"
Freddie shook his
head.
"You wouldn't
speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her! Well, you'll see her
tonight. She's coming here to dinner."
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"Miss Mariner
will be here, too. A foursome. Tell Mrs Parker to pull up her socks and giv=
e us
something pretty ripe. Soup, fish, all that sort of thing. She knows. And l=
et's
have a stoup of malvoisie from the oldest bin. This is a special
occasion!"
"Her ladyship
will be meeting Miss Mariner for the first time, sir?"
"You've put =
your
finger on it! Absolutely the first time on this or any stage! We must all r=
ally
round and make the thing a success."
"I am sure M=
rs
Parker will strain every nerve, sir." Parker moved to the door, carryi=
ng
the rejected egg, and stepped aside to allow a tall, well-built man of about
thirty to enter. "Good morning, Sir Derek."
"Morning,
Parker."
Parker slid softly
from the room. Derek Underhill sat down at the table. He was a strikingly
handsome man, with a strong, forceful face, dark, lean and cleanly shaven. =
He
was one of those men whom a stranger would instinctively pick out of a crow=
d as
worthy of note. His only defect was that his heavy eyebrows gave him at tim=
es
an expression which was a little forbidding. Women, however, had never been
repelled by it. He was very popular with women, not quite so popular with
men--always excepting Freddie Rooke, who worshipped him. They had been at
school together, though Freddie was the younger by several years.
"Finished,
Freddie?" asked Derek.
Freddie smiled wa=
nly,
"We are not
breakfasting this morning," he replied. "The spirit was willing, =
but
the jolly old flesh would have none of it. To be perfectly frank, the Last =
of
the Rookes has a bit of a head."
"Ass!" =
said
Derek.
"A bit of
sympathy," said Freddie, pained, "would not be out of place. We a=
re
far from well. Some person unknown has put a threshing-machine inside the o=
ld
bean and substituted a piece of brown paper for our tongue. Things look dark
and yellow and wobbly!"
"You shouldn=
't
have overdone it last night."
"It was Algy
Martyn's birthday," pleaded Freddie.
"If I were an
ass like Algy Martyn," said Derek, "I wouldn't go about advertisi=
ng
the fact that I'd been born. I'd hush it up!"
He helped himself=
to
a plentiful portion of kedgeree, Freddie watching him with repulsion mingled
with envy. When he began to eat, the spectacle became too poignant for the
sufferer, and he wandered to the window.
"What a beas=
t of
a day!"
It was an appalli=
ng
day. January, that grim month, was treating London with its usual severity.
Early in the morning a bank of fog had rolled up off the river, and was
deepening from pearly white to a lurid brown. It pressed on the window-pane
like a blanket, leaving dark, damp rivulets on the glass.
"Awful!"
said Derek.
"Your mater's
train will be late."
"Yes. Damned
nuisance. It's bad enough meeting trains in any case, without having to hang
about a draughty station for an hour."
"And it's su=
re,
I should imagine," went on Freddie, pursuing his train of thought,
"to make the dear old thing pretty tolerably ratty, if she has one of
those slow journeys." He pottered back to the fireplace, and rubbed his
shoulders reflectively against the mantelpiece. "I take it that you wr=
ote
to her about Jill?"
"Of course.
That's why she's coming over, I suppose. By the way, you got those seats for
that theatre tonight?"
"Yes. Three
together and one somewhere on the outskirts. If it's all the same to you, o=
ld
thing, I'll have the one on the outskirts."
Derek, who had
finished his kedgeree and was now making himself a blot on Freddie's horizon
with toast and marmalade, laughed.
"What a rabb=
it
you are, Freddie! Why on earth are you so afraid of mother?"
Freddie looked at=
him
as a timid young squire might have gazed upon St. George when the latter set
out to do battle with the dragon. He was of the amiable type which makes he=
roes
of its friends. In the old days when he had fagged for him at Winchester he=
had
thought Derek the most wonderful person in the world, and this view he stil=
l retained.
Indeed, subsequent events had strengthened it. Derek had done the most amaz=
ing
things since leaving school. He had had a brilliant career at Oxford, and n=
ow,
in the House of Commons, was already looked upon by the leaders of his part=
y as
one to be watched and encouraged. He played polo superlatively well, and wa=
s a
fine shot. But of all his gifts and qualities the one that extorted Freddie=
's
admiration in its intensest form was his lion-like courage as exemplified by
his behavior in the present crisis. There he sat, placidly eating toast and
marmalade, while the boat-train containing Lady Underhill already sped on i=
ts
way from Dover to London. It was like Drake playing bowls with the Spanish
Armada in sight.
"I wish I had
your nerve!" he said, awed. "What I should be feeling, if I were =
in
your place and had to meet your mater after telling her that I was engaged =
to
marry a girl she had never seen, I don't know. I'd rather face a wounded
tiger!"
"Idiot!"
said Derek placidly.
"Not,"
pursued Freddie, "that I mean to say anything in the least derogatory =
and
so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understand me, but the fact remains
she scares me pallid! Always has, ever since the first time I went to stay =
at
your place when I was a kid. I can still remember catching her eye the morn=
ing
I happened by pure chance to bung an apple through her bedroom window, mean=
ing
to let a cat on the sill below have it in the short ribs. She was at least
thirty feet away, but, by Jove, it stopped me like a bullet!"
"Push the be=
ll,
old man, will you? I want some more toast."
Freddie did as he=
was
requested with growing admiration.
"The condemn=
ed
man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "More toast,
Parker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door. "G=
allant!
That's what I call it. Gallant!"
Derek tilted his
chair back.
"Mother is s=
ure
to like Jill when she sees her," he said.
"When she se=
es
her! Ah! But the trouble is, young feller-me-lad, that she hasn't seen her!
That's the weak spot in your case, old companion! A month ago she didn't kn=
ow
of Jill's existence. Now, you know and I know that Jill is one of the best =
and
brightest. As far as we are concerned, everything in the good old garden is
lovely. Why, dash it, Jill and I were children together. Sported side by si=
de
on the green, and what not. I remember Jill, when she was twelve, turning t=
he
garden-hose on me and knocking about seventy-five per cent off the market v=
alue
of my best Sunday suit. That sort of thing forms a bond, you know, and I've
always felt that she was a corker. But your mater's got to discover it for
herself. It's a dashed pity, by Jove, that Jill hasn't a father or a mother=
or
something of that species to rally round just now. They would form a gang.
There's nothing like a gang! But she's only got that old uncle of hers. A r=
ummy
bird! Met him?"
"Several tim=
es.
I like him."
"Oh, he's a
genial old buck all right. A very bonhomous lad. But you hear some pretty q=
ueer
stories about him if you get among people who knew him in the old days. Even
now I'm not so dashed sure I should care to play cards with him. Young
Threepwood was telling me only the other day that the old boy took thirty q=
uid
off him at picquet as clean as a whistle. And Jimmy Monroe, who's on the St=
ock
Exchange, says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever=
it is
chappies do down in the City. Margins. That's the word. Jimmy made me buy s=
ome
myself on a thing called Amalgamated Dyes. I don't understand the procedure
exactly, but Jimmy says it's a sound egg and will do me a bit of good. What=
was
I talking about? Oh, yes, old Selby. There's no doubt he's quite a sportsma=
n.
But till you've got Jill well established, you know, I shouldn't enlarge on=
him
too much with the mater."
"On the
contrary," said Derek. "I shall mention him at the first opportun=
ity.
He knew my father out in India."
"Did he, by
Jove! Oh, well, that makes a difference."
Parker entered wi=
th
the toast, and Derek resumed his breakfast.
"It may be a
little bit awkward," he said, "at first, meeting mother. But
everything will be all right after five minutes."
"Absolutely!
But, oh, boy! that first five minutes!" Freddie gazed portentously thr=
ough
his eye-glass. Then he seemed to be undergoing some internal struggle, for =
he
gulped once or twice. "That first five minutes!" he said, and pau=
sed
again. A moment's silent self-communion, and he went on with a rush. "I
say, listen. Shall I come along, too?"
"Come
along?"
"To the stat=
ion.
With you."
"What on ear=
th
for?"
"To see you
through the opening stages. Break the ice and all that sort of thing. Nothi=
ng
like collecting a gang, you know. Moments when a feller needs a friend and =
so
forth. Say the word, and I'll buzz along and lend my moral support."
Derek's heavy
eyebrows closed together in an offended frown, and seemed to darken his who=
le
face. This unsolicited offer of assistance hurt his dignity. He showed a to=
uch
of the petulance which came now and then when he was annoyed, to suggest th=
at
he might not possess so strong a character as his exterior indicated.
"It's very k=
ind
of you," he began stiffly.
Freddie nodded. He
was acutely conscious of this himself.
"Some
fellows," he observed, "would say 'Not at all!' I suppose. But not
the Last of the Rookes! For, honestly, old man, between ourselves, I don't =
mind
admitting that this is the bravest deed of the year, and I'm dashed if I wo=
uld
do it for anyone else."
"It's very g=
ood
of you, Freddie . . ."
"That's all
right. I'm a Boy Scout, and this is my act of kindness for today."
Derek got up from=
the
table.
"Of course y=
ou
mustn't come," he said. "We can't form a sort of debating society=
to
discuss Jill on the platform at Charing Cross."
"Oh, I would
just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasional tactful word."=
;
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
"The wheeze
would simply be to . . ."
"It's
impossible."
"Oh, very
well," said Freddie, damped. "Just as you say, of course. But the=
re's
nothing like a gang, old man, nothing like a gang!"
2.
Derek Underhill t=
hrew
down the stump of his cigar, and grunted irritably. Inside Charing Cross
Station business was proceeding as usual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks m=
oved
to and fro like Juggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, w=
hile
others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness and
disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. For outside the fog
still held. The air was cold and raw and tasted coppery. In the street traf=
fic
moved at a funeral pace, to the accompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional
crashes. Once the sun had worked its way through the murk and had hung in t=
he
sky like a great red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again,=
blended
with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is a London fog's only
redeeming quality.
It seemed to Derek
that he had been patrolling the platform for a life-time, but he resumed his
sentinel duty. The fact that the boat-train, being already forty-five minut=
es
overdue, might arrive at any moment made it imperative that he remain where=
he
was instead of sitting, as he would much have preferred to sit, in one of t=
he waiting-rooms.
It would be a disaster if his mother should get out of the train and not fi=
nd
him there to meet her. That was just the sort of thing which would infuriate
her; and her mood, after a Channel crossing and a dreary journey by rail, w=
ould
be sufficiently dangerous as it was.
The fog and the
waiting had had their effect upon Derek. The resolute front he had exhibite=
d to
Freddie at the breakfast-table had melted since his arrival at the station,=
and
he was feeling nervous at the prospect of the meeting that lay before him. =
Calm
as he had appeared to the eye of Freddie and bravely as he had spoken, Dere=
k,
in the recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. There are men--and =
Derek
Underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the nursery. They m=
ay
put away childish things and rise in the world to affluence and success, but
the hand that rocked their cradle still rules their lives. As a boy, Derek =
had
always been firmly controlled by his mother, and the sway of her aggressive
personality had endured through manhood. Lady Underhill was a born ruler,
dominating most of the people with whom life brought her in contact. Distant
cousins quaked at her name, while among the male portion of her nearer rela=
tives
she was generally alluded to as The Family Curse.
Now that his meet=
ing
with her might occur at any moment, Derek shrank from it. It was not likely=
to
be a pleasant one. The mere fact that Lady Underhill was coming to London at
all made that improbable. When a man writes to inform his mother, who is
wintering on the Riviera, that he has become engaged to be married, the nat=
ural
course for her to pursue, if she approves of the step, is to wire her congr=
atulations
and good wishes. When for these she substitutes a curt announcement that sh=
e is
returning immediately, a certain lack of complaisance seems to be indicated=
.
Would his mother
approve of Jill? That was the question which he had been asking himself over
and over again as he paced the platform in the disheartening fog. Nothing h=
ad
been said, nothing had even been hinted, but he was perfectly aware that his
marriage was a matter regarding which Lady Underhill had always assumed that
she was to be consulted, even if she did not, as he suspected, claim the ri=
ght
to dictate. And he had become engaged quite suddenly, without a word to her
until it was all over and settled.
That, as Freddie =
had
pointed out, was the confoundedly awkward part of it. His engagement had be=
en
so sudden. Jill had swept into his life like a comet. His mother knew nothi=
ng
of her. A month ago he had known nothing of her himself. It would, he
perceived, as far as the benevolent approval of Lady Underhill was concerne=
d,
have been an altogether different matter had his choice fallen upon one of
those damsels whose characters, personality, and ancestry she knew. Daughte=
rs
of solid and useful men; sisters of rising young politicians like himself;
nieces of Burke's peerage; he could have introduced without embarrassment o=
ne
of these in the role of bride-elect. But Jill . . . Oh, well, when once his
mother had met Jill, everything was sure to be all right. Nobody could resi=
st
Jill. It would be like resisting the sunshine.
Somewhat comforte=
d by
this reflection, Derek turned to begin one more walk along the platform, and
stopped in mid-stride, raging. Beaming over the collar of a plaid greatcoat,
all helpfulness and devotion, Freddie Rooke was advancing towards him, the
friend that sticketh closer than a brother. Like some loving dog, who, orde=
red
home, sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping round corners and
crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful Freddie had followed him after al=
l.
And with him, to add the last touch to Derek's discomfiture, were those two
inseparable allies of his, Ronny Devereux and Algy Martyn.
"Well, old
thing," said Freddie, patting Derek encouragingly on the shoulder,
"here we are after all! I know you told me not to roil round and so fo=
rth,
but I knew you didn't mean it. I thought it over after you had left, and
decided it would be a rotten trick not to cluster about you in your hour of
need. I hope you don't mind Ronny and Algy breezing along, too. The fact is=
, I
was in the deuce of a funk--your jolly old mater always rather paralyzes my
nerve-centers, you know--so I roped them in. Met 'em in Piccadilly, groping
about for the club, and conscripted 'em both, they very decently consenting=
. We
all toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemist chappie's at the top of
the Hay-market, and now we're feeling full of beans and buck, ready for
anything. I've explained the whole thing to them, and they're with you to t=
he
death! Collect a gang, dear boy, collect a gang! That's the motto. There's
nothing like it!"
"Nothing!&qu=
ot;
said Ronny.
"Absolutely
nothing!" said Algy.
"We'll just =
see
you through the opening stages," said Freddie, "and then leg it.
We'll keep the conversation general, you know."
"Stop it get=
ting
into painful channels," said Ronny.
"Steer it
clear," said Algy, "of the touchy topic."
"That's the
wheeze," said Freddie. "We'll . . . Oh, golly! There's the train
coming in now!" His voice quavered, for not even the comforting presen=
ce
of his two allies could altogether sustain him in this ordeal. But he pulled
himself together with a manful effort. "Stick it, old beans!" he =
said
doughtily. "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the
party!"
"We're
here!" said Ronny Devereux.
"On the
spot!" said Algy Martyn.
3.
The boat-train sl=
id
into the station. Bells rang, engines blew off steam, porters shouted,
baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. The train began to give up its
contents, now in ones and twos, now in a steady stream. Most of the travell=
ers
seemed limp and exhausted, and were pale with the pallor that comes of a ch=
oppy
Channel crossing. Almost the only exception to the general condition of
collapse was the eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her
stand in the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued little mai=
d in
a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. Like the other travelle=
rs,
she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. No one could have told from Lady
Underhill's demeanor that the solid platform seemed to heave beneath her fe=
et
like a deck.
"Have you go=
t a
porter, Ferris? Where is he, then? Ah! Have you got all the bags? My
jewel-case? The suit-case? The small brown bag? The rugs? Where are the rug=
s?
"Yes, I can =
see
them, my good girl. There is no need to brandish them in my face. Keep the
jewel-case and give the rest of the things to the porter, and take him to l=
ook
after the trunks. You remember which they are? The steamer trunk, the other
trunk, the black box . . . Very well. Then make haste. And, when you've got
them all together, tell the porter to find you a four-wheeler. The small th=
ings
will go inside. Drive to the Savoy and ask for my suite. If they make any d=
ifficulty,
tell them that I engaged the rooms yesterday by telegraph from Mentone. Do =
you
understand?"
"Yes,
m'lady."
"Then go alo=
ng.
Oh, and give the porter sixpence. Sixpence is ample."
"Yes,
m'lady."
The little maid,
grasping the jewel-case, trotted off beside the now pessimistic porter, who=
had
started on this job under the impression that there was at least a bob's-wo=
rth
in it. The remark about the sixpence had jarred the porter's faith in his
species.
Derek approached,
acutely conscious of Freddie, Ronny, and Algy, who were skirmishing about h=
is
flank. He had enough to worry him without them. He had listened with growing
apprehension to the catalogue of his mother's possessions. Plainly this was=
no
flying visit. You do not pop over to London for a day or two with a steamer
trunk, another trunk, a black box, a suit-case, and a small brown bag. Lady=
Underhill
had evidently come prepared to stay; and the fact seemed to presage trouble=
.
"Well, mothe=
r!
So there you are at last!"
"Well,
Derek!"
Derek kissed his
mother. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer, like leopards. Freddie, w=
ith
the expression of one who leads a forlorn hope, moved his Adam's apple bris=
kly up
and down several times, and spoke.
"How do you =
do,
Lady Underhill?"
"How do you =
do,
Mr Rooke?"
Lady Underhill bo=
wed
stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fond of the Last of the Rookes. S=
he
supposed the Almighty had had some wise purpose in creating Freddie, but it=
had
always been inscrutable to her.
"Like you,&q=
uot;
mumbled Freddie, "to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. Mr Devereux.&quo=
t;
"Charmed,&qu=
ot;
said Ronny affably.
"Mr
Martyn."
"Delighted,&=
quot;
said Algy with old-world courtesy.
Lady Underhill
regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.
"How do you
do?" she said. "Have you come to meet somebody?"
"I-er-we-er-=
why-er--"
This woman always made Freddie feel as if he were being disembowelled by so=
me
clumsy amateur. He wished that he had defied the dictates of his better nat=
ure
and remained in his snug rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through =
this
business by himself. "I-er-we-er-came to meet you, don't you know!&quo=
t;
"Indeed! That
was very kind of you!"
"Oh, not at
all."
"Thought we'd
welcome you back to the old homestead," said Ronny, beaming.
"What could =
be
sweeter?" said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and extracted a formida=
ble
torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling delightfully at his ease, and couldn't
understand why Freddie had made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lad=
y.
"Don't mind if I smoke, do you? Air's a bit raw today. Gets into the
lungs."
Derek chafed
impotently. These unsought allies were making a difficult situation a thous=
and
times worse. A more acute observer than young Mr Martyn, he noted the tight
lines about his mother's mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they wer=
e.
Endeavoring to distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject
which was a little unfortunate.
"What sort of
crossing did you have, mother?"
Lady Underhill
winced. A current of air had sent the perfume of Algy's cigar playing about=
her
nostrils. She closed her eyes, and her face turned a shade paler. Freddie,
observing this, felt quite sorry for the poor old thing. She was a pest and=
a
pot of poison, of course, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was=
a
shame that she should look so green about the gills. He came to the conclus=
ion
that she must be hungry. The thing to do was to take her mind off it till s=
he
could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped down in front of a bowl of so=
up.
"Bit choppy,=
I
suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran up and down Lady
Underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "I was afraid you =
were
going to have a pretty rough time of it when I read the forecast in the pap=
er.
The good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?"
Lady Underhill
uttered a faint moan. Freddie noticed that she was looking deucedly chippy,
even chippier than a moment ago.
"It's an
extraordinary thing about that Channel crossing," said Algy Martyn
meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. "I've known fellows who
could travel quite happily everywhere else in the world--round the Horn in
sailing-ships and all that sort of thing--yield up their immortal soul cros=
sing
the Channel! Absolutely yield up their immortal soul! Don't know why. Rummy,
but there it is!"
"I'm like th=
at
myself," assented Ronny Devereux. "That dashed trip from Calais g=
ets
me every time. Bowls me right over. I go aboard, stoked to the eyebrows with
seasick remedies, swearing that this time I'll fool 'em, but down I go ten
minutes after we've started and the next thing I know is somebody saying,
'Well, well! So this is Dover!'"
"It's exactly
the same with me," said Freddie, delighted with the smooth, easy way t=
he
conversation was flowing. "Whether it's the hot, greasy smell of the
engines . . ."
"It's not the
engines," contended Ronny Devereux.
"Stands to
reason it can't be. I rather like the smell of engines. This station is ree=
king
with the smell of engine-grease, and I can drink it in and enjoy it." =
He
sniffed luxuriantly. "It's something else."
"Ronny's
right," said Algy cordially. "It isn't the engines. It's the way =
the
boat heaves up and down and up and down and up and down . . ." He shif=
ted
his cigar to his left hand in order to give with his right a spirited
illustration of a Channel steamer going up and down and up and down and up =
and
down. Lady Underhill, who had opened her eyes, had an excellent view of the
performance, and closed her eyes again quickly.
"Be quiet!&q=
uot;
she snapped.
"I was only
saying . . ."
"Be quiet!&q=
uot;
"Oh,
rather!"
Lady Underhill
wrestled with herself. She was a woman of great will-power and accustomed to
triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh. After awhile her eyes opened. She=
had
forced herself, against the evidence of her senses, to recognize that this =
was
a platform on which she stood and not a deck.
There was a pause.
Algy, damped, was temporarily out of action, and his friends had for the mo=
ment
nothing to remark.
"I'm afraid =
you
had a trying journey, mother," said Derek. "The train was very
late."
"Now,
train-sickness," said Algy, coming to the surface again, "is a th=
ing
lots of people suffer from. Never could understand it myself."
"I've never =
had
a touch of train-sickness," said Ronny.
"Oh, I
have," said Freddie. "I've often felt rotten on a train. I get fl=
oating
spots in front of my eyes and a sort of heaving sensation, and everything k=
ind
of goes black . . ."
"Mr Rooke!&q=
uot;
"Eh?"
"I should be
greatly obliged if you would keep these confidences for the ear of your med=
ical
adviser."
"Freddie,&qu=
ot;
intervened Derek hastily, "my mother's rather tired. Do you think you
could be going ahead and getting a taxi?"
"My dear old
chap, of course! Get you one in a second. Come along, Algy. Pick up the old
waukeesis, Ronny."
And Freddie,
accompanied by his henchmen, ambled off, well pleased with himself. He had,=
he
felt, helped to break the ice for Derek and had seen him safely through tho=
se
awkward opening stages. Now he could totter off with a light heart and get a
bite of lunch.
Lady Underhill's =
eyes
glittered. They were small, keen, black eyes, unlike Derek's, which were la=
rge
and brown. In their other features the two were obviously mother and son. E=
ach
had the same long upper lip, the same thin, firm mouth, the prominent chin
which was a family characteristic of the Underhills, and the jutting Underh=
ill
nose. Most of the Underhills came into the world looking as though they mea=
nt
to drive their way through life like a wedge.
"A little
more," she said tensely, "and I should have struck those unspeaka=
ble
young men with my umbrella. One of the things I have never been able to
understand, Derek, is why you should have selected that imbecile Rooke as y=
our
closest friend."
Derek smiled
tolerantly.
"It was more=
a
case of him selecting me. But Freddie is quite a good fellow really. He's a=
man
you've got to know."
"I have not =
got
to know him, and I thank heaven for it!"
"He's a very
good-natured fellow. It was decent of him to put me up at the Albany while =
our
house was let. By the way, he has some seats for the first night of a new p=
iece
this evening. He suggested that we might all dine at the Albany and go on to
the theatre." He hesitated a moment. "Jill will be there," he
said, and felt easier now that her name had at last come into the talk.
"She's longing to meet you."
"Then why di=
dn't
she meet me?"
"Here, do you
mean? At the station? Well, I--I wanted you to see her for the first time in
pleasanter surroundings."
"Oh!" s=
aid
Lady Underhill shortly.
It is a disturbing
thought that we suffer in this world just as much by being prudent and taki=
ng
precautions as we do by being rash and impulsive and acting as the spirit m=
oves
us. If Jill had been permitted by her wary fiancé to come with him to
the station to meet his mother, it is certain that much trouble would have =
been
avoided. True, Lady Underhill would probably have been rude to her in the o=
pening
stages of the interview, but she would not have been alarmed and suspicious;
or, rather, the vague suspicion which she had been feeling would not have
solidified, as, it did now, into definite certainty of the worst. All that
Derek had effected by his careful diplomacy had been to convince his mother
that he considered his bride-elect something to be broken gently to her.
She stopped and f=
aced
him.
"Who is
she?" she demanded. "Who is this girl?"
Derek flushed.
"I thought I
made everything clear in my letter."
"You made
nothing clear at all."
"By your
leave!" chanted a porter behind them, and a baggage-truck clove them
apart.
"We can't ta=
lk
in a crowded station," said Derek irritably. "Let me get you to t=
he
taxi and take you to the hotel. . . . What do you want to know about
Jill?"
"Everything.
Where does she come from? Who are her people? I don't know any Mariners.&qu=
ot;
"I haven't
cross-examined her," said Derek stiffly. "But I do know that her
parents are dead. Her father was an American."
"American!&q=
uot;
"Americans
frequently have daughters, I believe."
"There is
nothing to be gained by losing your temper," said Lady Underhill with
steely calm.
"There is
nothing to be gained, as far as I can see, by all this talk," retorted
Derek. He wondered vexedly why his mother always had this power of making h=
im
lose control of himself. He hated to lose control of himself. It upset him,=
and
blurred that vision which he liked to have of himself as a calm, important =
man
superior to ordinary weaknesses. "Jill and I are engaged, and there is=
an
end of it."
"Don't be a
fool," said Lady Underhill, and was driven away by another baggage-tru=
ck.
"You know perfectly well," she resumed, returning to the attack,
"that your marriage is a matter of the greatest concern to me and to t=
he
whole of the family."
"Listen,
mother!" Derek's long wait on the draughty platform had generated an
irritability which overcame the deep-seated awe of his mother which was the
result of years of defeat in battles of the will. "Let me tell you in a
few words all that I know of Jill, and then we'll drop the subject. In the
first place, she is a lady. Secondly, she has plenty of money . . ."
"The Underhi=
lls
do not need to marry for money."
"I am not
marrying for money!"
"Well, go
on."
"I have alre=
ady
described to you in my letter--very inadequately, but I did my best--what s=
he looks
like. Her sweetness, her loveableness, all the subtle things about her whic=
h go
to make her what she is, you will have to judge for yourself."
"I intend
to!"
"Well, that's
all, then. She lives with her uncle, a Major Selby . . ."
"Major Selby?
What regiment?"
"I didn't ask
him," snapped the goaded Derek. "And, in the name of heaven, what
does it matter?"
"Not the
Guards?"
"I tell you I
don't know."
"Probably a =
line
regiment," said Lady Underhill with an indescribable sniff.
"Possibly. W=
hat
then?" He paused, to play his trump card. "If you are worrying ab=
out
Major Selby's social standing, I may as well tell you that he used to know
father."
"What! When?
Where?"
"Years ago. =
In
India, when father was at Simla."
"Selby? Selb=
y?
Not Christopher Selby?"
"Oh, you
remember him?"
"I certainly
remember him! Not that he and I ever met, but your father often spoke of
him."
Derek was relieve=
d.
It was abominable that this sort of thing should matter, but one had to face
facts, and, as far as his mother was concerned, it did. The fact that Jill's
uncle had known his dead father would make all the difference to Lady
Underhill.
"Christopher
Selby!" said Lady Underhill reflectively. "Yes! I have often heard
your father speak of him. He was the man who gave your father an I.O.U. to =
pay
a card debt, and redeemed it with a check which was returned by the bank!&q=
uot;
"What!"=
"Didn't you =
hear
what I said? I will repeat it, if you wish."
"There must =
have
been some mistake."
"Only the one
your father made when he trusted the man."
"It must have
been some other fellow."
"Of
course!" said Lady Underhill satirically. "No doubt your father k=
new
hundreds of Christopher Selbys!"
Derek bit his lip=
.
"Well, after
all," he said doggedly, "whether it's true or not . . ."
"I see no re=
ason
why your father should not have spoken the truth."
"All right.
We'll say it is true, then. But what does it matter? I am marrying Jill, not
her uncle."
"Nevertheles=
s,
it would be pleasanter if her only living relative were not a swindler! . .=
.
Tell me, where and how did you meet this girl?"
"I should be
glad if you would not refer to her as 'this girl.' The name, if you have
forgotten it, is Mariner."
"Well, where=
did
you meet Miss Mariner?"
"At
Prince's."
"Restaurant?=
"
"Skating-rin=
k,"
said Derek impatiently. "Just after you left for Mentone. Freddie Rooke
introduced me."
"Oh, your
intellectual friend Mr Rooke knows her?"
"They were
children together. Her people lived next to the Rookes in Worcestershire.&q=
uot;
"I thought y=
ou
said she was an American."
"I said her
father was. He settled in England. Jill hasn't been in America since she was
eight or nine."
"The fact,&q=
uot;
said Lady Underhill, "that the girl is a friend of Mr Rooke is no great
recommendation."
Derek kicked angr=
ily
at a box of matches which someone had thrown down on the platform.
"I wonder if=
you
could possibly get it into your head, mother, that I want to marry Jill, not
engage her as an under-housemaid. I don't consider that she requires
recommendations, as you call them. However, don't you think the most sensib=
le
thing is for you to wait till you meet her at dinner tonight, and then you =
can
form your own opinion? I'm beginning to get a little bored with this futile=
discussion."
"As you seem
quite unable to talk on the subject of this girl without becoming rude,&quo=
t;
said Lady Underhill, "I agree with you. Let us hope that my first
impression will be a favorable one. Experience has taught me that first
impressions are everything."
"I'm glad you
think so," said Derek, "for I fell in love with Jill the very fir=
st
moment I saw her!"
4.
Parker stepped ba=
ck,
and surveyed with modest pride the dinner-table to which he had been putting
the finishing touches. It was an artistic job and a credit to him.
"That's
that!" said Parker, satisfied.
He went to the wi=
ndow
and looked out. The fog which had lasted well into the evening, had vanished
now, and the clear night was bright with stars. A distant murmur of traffic
came from the direction of Piccadilly.
As he stood there,
the front-door bell rang, and continued to ring in little spurts of sound. =
If
character can be deduced from bell-ringing, as nowadays it apparently can be
from every other form of human activity, one might have hazarded the guess =
that
whoever was on the other side of the door was determined, impetuous, and en=
ergetic.
"Parker!&quo=
t;
Freddie Rooke pus=
hed
a tousled head, which had yet to be brushed into the smooth sleekness that =
made
it a delight to the public eye, out of a room down the passage.
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"Somebody
ringing."
"I heard, si=
r. I
was about to answer the bell."
"If it's Lady
Underhill, tell her I'll be in in a minute."
"I fancy it =
is
Miss Mariner, sir. I think I recognise her touch."
He made his way d=
own
the passage to the front-door, and opened it. A girl was standing outside. =
She
wore a long gray fur coat, and a filmy gray hood covered her hair. As Parker
opened the door, she scampered in like a gray kitten.
"Brrh! It's
cold!" she exclaimed. "Hullo, Parker!"
"Good evenin=
g,
miss."
"Am I the la=
st
or the first or what?"
Parker moved to h=
elp
her with her cloak.
"Sir Derek a=
nd
her ladyship have not yet arrived, miss. Sir Derek went to bring her ladysh=
ip
from the Savoy Hotel. Mr Rooke is dressing in his bedroom and will be ready
very shortly."
The girl had slip=
ped
out of the fur coat, and Parker cast a swift glance of approval at her. He =
had
the valet's unerring eye for a thoroughbred, and Jill Mariner was manifestly
that. It showed in her walk, in every move of her small, active body, in the
way she looked at you, in the way she talked to you, in the little tilt of =
her resolute
chin. Her hair was pale gold, and had the brightness of coloring of a child=
's.
Her face glowed, and her gray eyes sparkled. She looked very much alive.
It was this alive=
ness
of hers that was her chief charm. Her eyes were good and her mouth, with its
small, even, teeth, attractive, but she would have laughed if anybody had
called her beautiful. She sometimes doubted if she were even pretty. Yet few
men had met her and remained entirely undisturbed. She had a magnetism. One
hapless youth, who had laid his heart at her feet and had been commanded to
pick it up again, had endeavored subsequently to explain her attraction (to=
a bosom
friend over a mournful bottle of the best in the club smoking-room) in these
words: "I don't know what it is about her, old man, but she somehow ma=
kes
a feller feel she's so damned interested in a chap, if you know what I
mean." And, though not generally credited in his circle with any great
acuteness, there is no doubt that the speaker had achieved something
approaching a true analysis of Jill's fascination for his sex. She was
interested in everything Life presented to her notice, from a Coronation to=
a
stray cat. She was vivid. She had sympathy. She listened to you as though y=
ou
really mattered. It takes a man of tough fibre to resist these qualities. W=
omen,
on the other hand, especially of the Lady Underhill type, can resist them
without an effort.
"Go and stir=
him
up," said Jill, alluding to the absent Mr Rooke. "Tell him to come
and talk to me. Where's the nearest fire? I want to get right over it and
huddle."
"The fire's
burning nicely in the sitting-room, miss."
Jill hurried into=
the
sitting-room, and increased her hold on Parker's esteem by exclaiming raptu=
rously
at the sight that greeted her. Parker had expended time and trouble over the
sitting-room. There was no dust, no untidiness. The pictures all hung strai=
ght;
the cushions were smooth and unrumpled; and a fire of exactly the right dim=
ensions
burned cheerfully in the grate, flickering cosily on the small piano by the
couch, on the deep leather arm-chairs which Freddie had brought with him fr=
om
Oxford, that home of comfortable chairs, and on the photographs that studded
the walls. In the center of the mantelpiece, the place of honor, was the
photograph of herself which she had given Derek a week ago.
"You're simp=
ly
wonderful, Parker! I don't see how you manage to make a room so cosy!"
Jill sat down on the club-fender that guarded the fireplace, and held her h=
ands
over the blaze. "I can't understand why men ever marry. Fancy having to
give up all this!"
"I am gratif=
ied
that you appreciate it, miss. I did my best to make it comfortable for you.=
I
fancy I hear Mr Rooke coming now."
"I hope the
others won't be long. I'm starving. Has Mrs Parker got something very good =
for
dinner?"
"She has
strained every nerve, miss."
"Then I'm su=
re
it's worth waiting for. Hullo, Freddie."
Freddie Rooke,
resplendent in evening dress, bustled in, patting his tie with solicitous
fingers. It had been right when he had looked in the glass in his bedroom, =
but
you never know about ties. Sometimes they stay right, sometimes they wiggle=
up
sideways. Life is full of these anxieties.
"I shouldn't
touch it," said Jill. "It looks beautiful, and, if I may say so in
confidence, is having a most disturbing effect on my emotional nature. I'm =
not
at all sure I shall be able to resist it right through the evening. It isn't
fair of you to try to alienate the affections of an engaged young person li=
ke
this."
Freddie squinted
down, and became calmer.
"Hullo, Jill,
old thing. Nobody here yet?"
"Well, I'm
here,--the petite figure seated on the fender. But perhaps I don't count.&q=
uot;
"Oh, I didn't
mean that, you know."
"I should ho=
pe
not, when I've bought a special new dress just to fascinate you. A creation=
I
mean. When they cost as much as this one did, you have to call them names. =
What
do you think of it?"
Freddie seated
himself on another section of the fender, and regarded her with the eye of =
an
expert. A snappy dresser, as the technical term is, himself, he appreciated
snap in the outer covering of the other sex.
"Topping!&qu=
ot;
he said spaciously. "No other word for it! All wool and a yard wide!
Precisely as mother makes it! You look like a thingummy."
"How splendi=
d!
All my life I've wanted to look like a thingummy, but somehow I've never be=
en
able to manage it."
"A
wood-nymph!" exclaimed Freddie, in a burst of unwonted imagery.
"Wood-nymphs
didn't wear creations."
"Well, you k=
now
what I mean!" He looked at her with honest admiration. "Dash it,
Jill, you know, there's something about you! You're--what's the word?--you'=
ve
got such small bones!"
"Ugh! I supp=
ose
it's a compliment, but how horrible it sounds! It makes me feel like a
skeleton."
"I mean to s=
ay,
you're--you're dainty!"
"That's much
better."
"You look as=
if
you weighed about an ounce and a half! You look like a bit of thistledown!
You're a little fairy princess, dash it!"
"Freddie! Th=
is
is eloquence!" Jill raised her left hand, and twiddled a ringed finger
ostentatiously. "Er--you do realize that I'm bespoke, don't you, and t=
hat
my heart, alas, is another's? Because you sound as if you were going to
propose."
Freddie produced a
snowy handkerchief, and polished his eye-glass. Solemnity descended on him =
like
a cloud. He looked at Jill with an earnest, paternal gaze.
"That reminds
me," he said. "I wanted to have, a bit of a talk with you about
that--being engaged and all that sort of thing. I'm glad I got you alone be=
fore
the Curse arrived."
"Curse? Do y=
ou
mean Derek's mother? That sounds cheerful and encouraging."
"Well, she i=
s,
you know," said Freddie earnestly. "She's a bird! It would be idl=
e to
deny it. She always puts the fear of God into me. I never know what to say =
to
her."
"Why don't y=
ou
try asking her riddles?"
"It's no jok=
ing
matter," persisted Freddie, his amiable face overcast. "Wait till=
you
meet her! You should have seen her at the station this morning. You don't k=
now
what you're up against!"
"You make my
flesh creep, Freddie. What am I up against?"
Freddie poked the
fire scientifically, and assisted it with coal.
"It's this
way," he said. "Of course, dear old Derek's the finest chap in the
world."
"I know
that," said Jill softly. She patted Freddie's hand with a little gestu=
re
of gratitude. Freddie's devotion to Derek was a thing that always touched h=
er.
She looked thoughtfully into the fire, and her eyes seemed to glow in sympa=
thy
with the glowing coals. "There's nobody like him!"
"But,"
continued Freddie, "he always has been frightfully under his mother's
thumb, you know."
Jill was consciou=
s of
a little flicker of irritation.
"Don't be
absurd, Freddie. How could a man like Derek be under anybody's thumb?"=
"Well, you k=
now
what I mean!"
"I don't in =
the
least know what you mean."
"I mean, it
would be rather rotten if his mother set him against you."
Jill clenched her
teeth. The quick temper which always lurked so very little beneath the surf=
ace
of her cheerfulness was stirred. She felt suddenly chilled and miserable. S=
he
tried to tell herself that Freddie was just an amiable blunderer who spoke
without sense or reason, but it was no use. She could not rid herself of a
feeling of foreboding and discomfort. It had been the one jarring note in t=
he sweet
melody of her love-story, this apprehension of Derek's regarding his mother.
The Derek she loved was a strong man, with a strong man's contempt for other
people's criticism; and there had been something ignoble and fussy in his
attitude regarding Lady Underhill. She had tried to feel that the flaw in h=
er
idol did not exist. And here was Freddie Rooke, a man who admired Derek with
all his hero-worshipping nature, pointing it out independently. She was ann=
oyed,
and she expended her annoyance, as women will do, upon the innocent bystand=
er.
"Do you reme=
mber
the time I turned the hose on you, Freddie," she said, rising from the
fender, "years ago, when we were children, when you and that awful Mas=
on
boy--what was his name? Wally Mason--teased me?" She looked at the unh=
appy
Freddie with a hostile eye. It was his blundering words that had spoiled
everything. "I've forgotten what it was all about, but I know that you=
and
Wally infuriated me and I turned the garden hose on you and soaked you both=
to
the skin. Well, all I want to point out is that, if you go on talking nonse=
nse
about Derek and his mother and me, I shall ask Parker to bring me a jug of =
water,
and I shall empty it over you! Set him against me! You talk as if love were=
a
thing any third party could come along and turn off with a tap! Do you supp=
ose
that, when two people love each other as Derek and I do, that it can possib=
ly
matter in the least what anybody else thinks or says, even if it is his mot=
her?
I haven't got a mother, but suppose Uncle Chris came and warned me against
Derek . . ."
Her anger suddenly
left her as quickly as it had come. That was always the way with Jill. One
moment later she would be raging; the next, something would tickle her sens=
e of
humor and restore her instantly to cheerfulness. And the thought of dear, l=
azy
old Uncle Chris taking the trouble to warn anybody against anything except =
the wrong
brand of wine or an inferior make of cigar conjured up a picture before whi=
ch
wrath melted away. She chuckled, and Freddie, who had been wilting on the
fender, perked up.
"You're an
extraordinary girl, Jill! One never knows when you're going to get the wind
up."
"Isn't it en=
ough
to make me get the wind up, as you call it, when you say absurd things like
that?"
"I meant wel=
l,
old girl!"
"That's the
trouble with you. You always do mean well. You go about the world meaning w=
ell
till people fly to put themselves under police protection. Besides, what on
earth could Lady Underhill find to object to in me? I've plenty of money, a=
nd
I'm one of the most charming and attractive of Society belles. You needn't =
take
my word for that, and I don't suppose you've noticed it, but that's what Mr=
Gossip
in the Morning Mirror called me when he was writing about my getting engage=
d to
Derek. My maid showed me the clipping. There was quite a long paragraph, wi=
th a
picture of me that looked like a Zulu chieftainess taken in a coal-cellar
during a bad fog. Well, after that, what could anyone say against me? I'm a
perfect prize! I expect Lady Underhill screamed with joy when she heard the
news and went singing all over her Riviera villa."
"Yes," =
said
Freddie dubiously. "Yes, yes, oh, quite so, rather!"
Jill looked at him
sternly.
"Freddie, yo=
u're
concealing something from me! You don't think I'm a charming and attractive=
Society
belle! Tell me why not and I'll show you where you are wrong. Is it my face=
you
object to, or my manners, or my figure? There was a young bride of Antigua,=
who
said to her mate, 'What a pig you are!' Said he, 'Oh, my queen, is it manne=
rs
you mean, or do you allude to my fig-u-ar?' Isn't my figuar all right,
Freddie?"
"Oh, I think
you're topping."
"But for some
reason you're afraid that Derek's mother won't think so. Why won't Lady
Underhill agree with Mr Gossip?"
Freddie hesitated=
.
"Speak up!&q=
uot;
"Well, it's =
like
this. Remember I've known the old devil . . ."
"Freddie Roo=
ke!
Where do you pick up such expressions? Not from me!"
"Well, that's
how I always think of her! I say I've known her ever since I used to go and
stop at their place when I was at school, and I know exactly the sort of th=
ings
that put her back up. She's a what-d'you-call-it."
"I see no ha=
rm
in that. Why shouldn't the dear old lady be a what-d'you-call-it? She must =
do
something in her spare time."
"I mean to s=
ay,
one of the old school, don't you know. And you're so dashed impulsive, old
girl. You know you are! You are always saying things that come into your
head."
"You can't s=
ay a
thing unless it comes into your head."
"You know wh=
at I
mean," Freddie went on earnestly, not to be diverted from his theme.
"You say rummy things and you do rummy things. What I mean to say is,
you're impulsive."
"What have I
ever done that the sternest critic could call rummy?"
"Well, I've =
seen
you with my own eyes stop in the middle of Bond Street and help a lot of
fellows shove along a cart that had got stuck. Mind you, I'm not blaming you
for it . . ."
"I should ho=
pe
not. The poor old horse was trying all he knew to get going, and he couldn't
quite make it. Naturally, I helped."
"Oh, I know.=
Very
decent and all that, but I doubt if Lady Underhill would have thought a lot=
of
it. And you're so dashed chummy with the lower orders."
"Don't be a
snob, Freddie."
"I'm not a
snob," protested Freddie, wounded. "When I'm alone with Parker--f=
or
instance--I'm as chatty as dammit. But I don't ask waiters in public
restaurants how their lumbago is."
"Have you ev=
er
had lumbago?"
"No."
"Well, it's a
very painful thing, and waiters get it just as badly as dukes. Worse, I sho=
uld
think, because they're always bending and stooping and carrying things.
Naturally one feels sorry for them."
"But how do =
you
ever find out that a waiter has got lumbago?"
"I ask him; =
of
course."
"Well, for
goodness sake," said Freddie, "if you feel the impulse to do that
sort of thing tonight, try and restrain it. I mean to say, if you're curiou=
s to
know anything about Parker's chilblains, for instance, don't enquire after =
them
while he's handing Lady Underhill the potatoes! She wouldn't like it."=
Jill uttered an
exclamation.
"I knew there
was something! Being so cold and wanting to rush in and crouch over a fire =
put
it clean out of my head. He must be thinking me a perfect beast!" She =
ran
to the door. "Parker! Parker!"
Parker appeared f=
rom
nowhere.
"Yes,
miss?"
"I'm so sorr=
y I forgot
to ask before. How are your chilblains?"
"A good deal
better, miss, thank you."
"Did you try=
the
stuff I recommended?"
"Yes, miss. =
It
did them a world of good."
"Splendid!&q=
uot;
Jill went back in=
to
the sitting-room.
"It's all
right," she said reassuringly. "They're better."
She wandered
restlessly about the room, looking at the photographs.
"What a lot =
of
girls you seem to know, Freddie. Are these all the ones you've loved and
lost?" She sat down at the piano and touched the keys. The clock on the
mantelpiece chimed the half hour. "I wish to goodness they would
arrive," she said.
"They'll be =
here
pretty soon, I expect."
"It's rather
awful," said Jill, "to think of Lady Underhill racing all the way
from Mentone to Paris and from Paris to Calais and from Calais to Dover and
from Dover to London simply to inspect me. You can't wonder I'm nervous,
Freddie."
The eye-glass dro=
pped
from Freddie's eye.
"Are you
nervous?" he asked, astonished.
"Of course I=
'm
nervous. Wouldn't you be in my place?"
"Well, I sho=
uld
never have thought it."
"Why do you
suppose I've been talking such a lot? Why do you imagine I snapped your poo=
r,
innocent head off just now? I'm terrified inside, terrified!"
"You don't l=
ook
it, by Jove!"
"No, I'm try=
ing
to be a little warrior. That's what Uncle Chris always used to call me. It
started the day when he took me to have a tooth out, when I was ten. 'Be a
little warrior, Jill!' he kept saying--'Be a little warrior!' And I was.&qu=
ot;
She looked at the clock. "But I shan't be if they don't get here soon.=
The
suspense is awful." She strummed the keys. "Suppose she doesn't l=
ike
me, Freddie! You see how you've scared me."
"I didn't say
she wouldn't. I only said you'd got to watch out a bit."
"Something t=
ells
me she won't. My nerve is oozing out of me." Jill shook her head
impatiently. "It's all so vulgar! I thought this sort of thing only
happened in the comic papers and in music-hall songs. Why, it's just like t=
hat
song somebody used to sing." She laughed. "Do you remember? I don=
't
know how the verse went, but . . .
John took me round to =
see
his mother, =
&nb=
sp; his
mother, =
&nb=
sp; his
mother! And=
when
he'd introduced us to each other, She sized up ever=
ything
that I had on. She p=
ut me
through a cross-examination: I fai=
rly
boiled with aggravation: =
Then
she shook her head, =
Looked
at me and said: =
'Poor
John! Poor John!'
"Chorus,
Freddie! Let's cheer ourselves up! We need it!"
'John took me round to=
see
his mother . . . !
"His
mo-o-o-other!" croaked Freddie. Curiously enough, this ballad was one =
of
Freddie's favorites. He had rendered it with a good deal of success on three
separate occasions at village entertainments down in Worcestershire, and he
rather flattered himself that he could get about as much out of it as the n=
ext
man. He proceeded to abet Jill heartily with gruff sounds which he was under
the impression constituted what is known in musical circles as "singing
seconds."
"His mo-o-o-=
other!"
he growled with frightful scorn.
"And when sh=
e'd
introduced us to each other . . ."
"O-o-o-other=
!"
"She sized up
everything that I had on!"
"Pom-pom-pom=
!"
"She put me
through a cross-examination . . ."
Jill had thrown h=
er
head back, and was singing jubilantly at the top of her voice. The apposite=
ness
of the song had cheered her up. It seemed somehow to make her forebodings
rather ridiculous, to reduce them to absurdity, to turn into farce the
gathering tragedy which had been weighing upon her nerves.
"Then she shook h=
er
head, Looke=
d at
me and said: =
'Poor
John!' . . ."
"Jill,"
said a voice at the door. "I want you to meet my mother!"
"Poo-oo-oor
John!" bleated the hapless Freddie, unable to check himself.
"Dinner,&quo=
t;
said Parker the valet, appearing at the door and breaking a silence that se=
emed
to fill the room like a tangible presence, "is served!"
1.
The front-door cl=
osed
softly behind the theatre-party. Dinner was over, and Parker had just been
assisting the expedition out of the place. Sensitive to atmosphere, he had
found his share in the dinner a little trying. It had been a strained meal,=
and
what he liked was a clatter of conversation and everybody having a good time
and enjoying themselves.
"Ellen!"=
; called
Parker, as he proceeded down the passage to the empty dining-room.
"Ellen!"
Mrs Parker appear=
ed
out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. Her work for the evening, like her
husband's, was over. Presently what is technically called a "useful
girl" would come in to wash the dishes, leaving the evening free for
social intercourse. Mrs Parker had done well by her patrons that night, and=
now
she wanted a quiet chat with Parker over a glass of Freddie Rooke's port.
"Have they g=
one,
Horace?" she asked, following him into the dining-room.
Parker selected a
cigar from Freddie's humidor, crackled it against his ear, smelt it, clipped
off the end, and lit it. He took the decanter and filled his wife's glass, =
then
mixed himself a whisky-and-soda.
"Happy
days!" said Parker. "Yes, they've gone!"
"I didn't see
her ladyship."
"You didn't =
miss
much! A nasty, dangerous specimen, she is! 'Always merry and bright', I don=
't
think. I wish you'd have had my job of waiting on 'em, Ellen, and me been t=
he
one to stay in the kitchen safe out of it all. That's all I say! It's no tr=
eat
to me to 'and the dishes when the atmosphere's what you might call electric=
. I didn't
envy them that vol-au-vent of yours, Ellen, good as it smelt. Better a dinn=
er
of 'erbs where love is than a stalled ox and 'atred therewith," said
Parker, helping himself to a walnut.
"Did they ha=
ve
words?"
Parker shook his =
head
impatiently.
"That sort d=
on't
have words, Ellen. They just sit and goggle."
"How did her
ladyship seem to hit it off with Miss Mariner, Horace?"
Parker uttered a =
dry
laugh.
"Ever seen a
couple of strange dogs watching each other sort of wary? That was them! Not
that Miss Mariner wasn't all that was pleasant and nice-spoken. She's all
right, Miss Mariner is. She's a little queen! It wasn't her fault the dinner
you'd took so much trouble over was more like an evening in the Morgue than=
a
Christian dinner-party. She tried to help things along best she could. But =
what
with Sir Derek chewing his lip 'alf the time and his mother acting about as
matey as a pennorth of ice-cream, she didn't have a chance. As for the guv'=
nor,-well,
I wish you could have seen him, that's all. You know, Ellen, sometimes I'm =
not
altogether easy in my mind about the guv'nor's mental balance. He knows how=
to
buy cigars, and you tell me his port is good--I never touch it myself--but
sometimes he seems to me to go right off his onion. Just sat there, he did,=
all
through dinner, looking as if he expected the good food to rise up and bite=
him
in the face, and jumping nervous when I spoke to him. It's not my fault,&qu=
ot;
said Parker, aggrieved. "I can't give gentlemen warning before I ask '=
em
if they'll have sherry or hock. I can't ring a bell or toot a horn to show =
'em
I'm coming. It's my place to bend over and whisper in their ear, and they'v=
e no
right to leap about in their seats and make me spill good wine. (You'll see=
the
spot close by where you're sitting, Ellen. Jogged my wrist, he did!) I'd li=
ke
to know why people in the spear of life which these people are in can't beh=
ave themselves
rational, same as we do. When we were walking out and I took you to have tea
with my mother, it was one of the pleasantest meals I ever ate. Talk about
'armony! It was a love-feast!"
"Your ma and=
I
took to each other right from the start, Horace," said Mrs Parker
softly--"That's the difference."
"Well, any w=
oman
with any sense would take to Miss Mariner. If I told you how near I came to
spilling the sauce-boat accidentally over that old fossil's head, you'd be
surprised, Ellen. She just sat there brooding like an old eagle. If you ask=
my
opinion, Miss Mariner's a long sight too good for her precious son!"
"Oh, but Hor=
ace!
Sir Derek's a baronet!"
"What of it?
Kind 'earts are more than coronets and simple faith than Norman blood, aren=
't
they?"
"You're talk=
ing
Socialism, Horace."
"No, I'm not.
I'm talking sense. I don't know who Miss Mariner's parents may have been--I
never enquired--but anyone can see she's a lady born and bred. But do you
suppose the path of true love is going to run smooth, for all that? Not it!
She's got a 'ard time ahead of her, that poor girl."
"Horace!&quo=
t;
Mrs Parker's gentle heart was wrung. The situation hinted at by her husband=
was
no new one--indeed, it formed the basis of at least fifty per cent of the
stories in the True Heart Novelette Series, of which she was a determined
reader--but it had never failed to touch her. "Do you think her ladysh=
ip
means to come between them and wreck their romance?"
"I think she
means to have a jolly good try."
"But Sir Der=
ek
has his own money, hasn't he? I mean, it's not like when Sir Courtenay Trav=
ers
fell in love with the milk-maid and was dependent on his mother, the Counte=
ss,
for everything. Sir Derek can afford to do what he pleases, can't he?"=
Parker shook his =
head
tolerantly. The excellence of the cigar and the soothing qualities of the
whisky-and-soda had worked upon him, and he was feeling less ruffled.
"You don't
understand these things," he said. "Women like her ladyship can t=
alk
a man into anything and out of anything. I wouldn't care, only you can see =
the
poor girl is mad over the feller. What she finds attractive in him, I can't
say, but that's her own affair."
"He's very
handsome, Horace, with those flashing eyes and that stern mouth," argu=
ed
Mrs Parker.
Parker sniffed.
"Have it your
own way," he said. "It's no treat to me to see his eyes flash, an=
d if
he'd put that stern mouth of his to some better use than advising the guv'n=
or
to lock up the cigars and trouser the key, I'd be better pleased. If there's
one thing I can't stand," said Parker, "it's not to be trusted!&q=
uot;
He lifted his cigar and looked at it censoriously. "I thought so! Burn=
ing
all down one side. They will do that if you light 'em careless. Oh, well,&q=
uot;
he continued, rising and going to the humidor, "there's plenty more wh=
ere
that came from. Out of evil cometh good," said Parker philosophically.
"If the guv'nor hadn't been in such a overwrought state tonight, he'd =
have
remembered not to leave the key in the key-hole. Help yourself to another g=
lass
of port, Ellen, and let's enjoy ourselves!"
2.
When one considers
how full of his own troubles, how weighed down with the problems of his own
existence the average playgoer generally is when he enters a theatre, it is
remarkable that dramatists ever find it possible to divert and entertain wh=
ole
audiences for a space of several hours. As regards at least three of those =
who
had assembled to witness its opening performance, the author of "Tried=
by Fire,"
at the Leicester Theater, undoubtedly had his work cut out for him.
It has perhaps be=
en
sufficiently indicated by the remarks of Parker, the valet, that the little
dinner at Freddie Rooke's had not been an unqualified success. Searching the
records for an adequately gloomy parallel to the taxi-cab journey to the th=
eatre
which followed it, one can only think of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. And
yet even that was probably not conducted in dead silence. There must have b=
een moments
when Murat got off a good thing or Ney said something worth hearing about t=
he
weather.
The only member of
the party who was even remotely happy was, curiously enough, Freddie Rooke.
Originally Freddie had obtained three tickets for "Tried by Fire."
The unexpected arrival of Lady Underhill had obliged him to buy a fourth,
separated by several rows from the other three. This, as he had told Derek =
at
breakfast, was the seat he proposed to occupy himself.
It consoles the
philosopher in this hard world to reflect that, even if man is born to sorr=
ow
as the sparks fly upwards, it is still possible for small things to make him
happy. The thought of being several rows away from Lady Underhill had resto=
red
Freddie's equanimity like a tonic. It thrilled him like the strains of some=
grand,
sweet anthem all the way to the theatre. If Freddie Rooke had been asked at
that moment to define happiness in a few words, he would have replied that =
it
consisted in being several rows away from Lady Underhill.
The theatre was
nearly full when Freddie's party arrived. The Leicester Theatre had been re=
nted
for the season by the newest theatrical knight, Sir Chester Portwood, who h=
ad a
large following; and, whatever might be the fate of the play in the final
issue, it would do at least one night's business. The stalls were ablaze wi=
th jewelry
and crackling with starched shirt-fronts; and expensive scents pervaded the
air, putting up a stiff battle with the plebeian peppermint that emanated f=
rom
the pit. The boxes were filled, and up in the gallery grim-faced patrons of=
the
drama, who had paid their shillings at the door and intended to get a
shilling's-worth of entertainment in return, sat and waited stolidly for the
curtain to rise.
First nights at t=
he
theatre always excited Jill. The depression induced by absorbing nourishment
and endeavouring to make conversation in the presence of Lady Underhill left
her. The worst, she told herself, had happened. She had met Derek's mother,=
and
Derek's mother plainly disliked her. Well, that, as Parker would have said,=
was
that. Now she just wanted to enjoy herself. She loved the theatre. The stir,
the buzz of conversation, the warmth and life of it, all touched a chord in=
her
which made depression impossible.
The lights shot up
beyond the curtain. The house-lights dimmed. Conversation ceased. The curta=
in
rose. Jill wriggled herself comfortably into her seat, and slipped her hand
into Derek's. She felt a glow of happiness as it closed over hers. All, she
told herself, was right with the world.
All, that is to s=
ay,
except the drama which was unfolding on the stage. It was one of those plays
which start wrong and never recover. By the end of the first ten minutes th=
ere
had spread through the theatre that uneasy feeling which comes over the
audience at an opening performance when it realises that it is going to be
bored. A sort of lethargy had gripped the stalls. The dress-circle was coug=
hing.
Up in the gallery there was grim silence.
Sir Chester Portw=
ood
was an actor-manager who had made his reputation in light comedy of the tea=
-cup
school. His numerous admirers attended a first night at his theatre in a mo=
od
of comfortable anticipation, assured of something pleasant and frothy with a
good deal of bright dialogue and not too much plot. Tonight he seemed to ha=
ve
fallen a victim to that spirit of ambition which intermittently attacks act=
or-managers
of his class, expressing itself in an attempt to prove that, having establi=
shed
themselves securely as light comedians, they can, like the lady reciter, tu=
rn
right around and be serious. The one thing which the London public felt tha=
t it
was safe from in a Portwood play was heaviness, and "Tried by Fire&quo=
t;
was grievously heavy. It was a poetic drama, and the audience, though loth =
to
do anybody an injustice, was beginning to suspect that it was written in bl=
ank
verse.
The acting did
nothing to dispel the growing uneasiness. Sir Chester himself, apparently
oppressed by the weightiness of the occasion and the responsibility of offe=
ring
an unfamiliar brand of goods to his public, had dropped his customary debon=
air
method of delivering lines and was mouthing his speeches. It was good gargl=
ing,
but bad elocution. And, for some reason best known to himself, he had entru=
sted
the role of the heroine to a doll-like damsel with a lisp, of whom the audi=
ence
disapproved sternly from her initial entrance.
It was about half=
-way
through the first act that Jill, whose attention had begun to wander, heard=
a
soft groan at her side. The seats which Freddie Rooke had bought were at the
extreme end of the seventh row. There was only one other seat in the row, a=
nd,
as Derek had placed his mother on his left and was sitting between her and =
Jill,
the latter had this seat on her right. It had been empty at the rise of the
curtain, but in the past few minutes a man had slipped silently into it. The
darkness prevented Jill from seeing his face, but it was plain that he was
suffering, and her sympathy went out to him. His opinion of the play so
obviously coincided with her own.
Presently the fir=
st
act ended, and the lights went up. There was a spatter of insincere applause
from the stalls, echoed in the dress-circle. It grew fainter in the upper
circle, and did not reach the gallery at all.
"Well?"
said Jill to Derek. "What do you think of it?"
"Too awful f=
or
words," said Derek sternly.
He leaned forward=
to
join in the conversation which had started between Lady Underhill and some
friends she had discovered in the seats in front; and Jill, turning, became
aware that the man on her right was looking at her intently. He was a big m=
an
with rough, wiry hair and a humorous mouth. His age appeared to be somewher=
e in
the middle twenties. Jill, in the brief moment in which their eyes met, dec=
ided
that he was ugly, but with an ugliness that was rather attractive. He remin=
ded
her of one of those large, loose, shaggy dogs that break things in drawing-=
rooms
but make admirable companions for the open road. She had a feeling that he
would look better in tweeds in a field than in evening dress in a theatre. =
He
had nice eyes. She could not distinguish their color, but they were frank a=
nd
friendly.
All this Jill not=
ed
with her customary quickness, and then she looked away. For an instant she =
had
had an odd feeling that somewhere she had met this man or somebody very like
him before, but the impression vanished. She also had the impression that he
was still looking at her, but she gazed demurely in front of her and did not
attempt to verify the suspicion.
Between them, as =
they
sat side by side, there inserted itself suddenly the pinkly remorseful face=
of
Freddie Rooke. Freddie, having skirmished warily in the aisle until it was
clear that Lady Underhill's attention was engaged elsewhere, had occupied a
seat in the row behind which had been left vacant temporarily by an owner w=
ho liked
refreshment between the acts. Freddie was feeling deeply ashamed of himself=
. He
felt that he had perpetrated a bloomer of no slight magnitude.
"I'm awfully
sorry about this," he said penitently. "I mean, roping you in to
listen to this frightful tosh! When I think I might have got seats just as =
well
for any one of half a dozen topping musical comedies, I feel like kicking
myself with some vim. But, honestly, how was I to know? I never dreamed we =
were
going to be let in for anything of this sort. Portwood's plays are usually =
so
dashed bright and snappy and all that. Can't think what he was doing, putti=
ng
on a thing like this. Why, it's blue round the edges!"
The man on Jill's
right laughed sharply.
"Perhaps,&qu=
ot;
he said, "the chump who wrote the piece got away from the asylum long
enough to put up the money to produce it."
If there is one t=
hing
that startles the well-bred Londoner and throws him off his balance, it is =
to
be addressed unexpectedly by a stranger. Freddie's sense of decency was
revolted. A voice from the tomb could hardly have shaken him more. All the
traditions to which he had been brought up had gone to solidify his belief =
that
this was one of things which didn't happen. Absolutely it wasn't done. Duri=
ng an
earthquake or a shipwreck and possibly on the Day of Judgment, yes. But only
then. At other times, unless they wanted a match or the time or something,
chappies did not speak to fellows to whom they had not been introduced. He =
was
far too amiable to snub the man, but to go on with this degrading scene was=
out
of the question. There was nothing for it but flight.
"Oh, ah,
yes," he mumbled. "Well," he added to Jill, "I suppose I
may as well be toddling back. See you later and so forth."
And with a faint
'Good-bye-ee!' Freddie removed himself, thoroughly unnerved.
Jill looked out of
the corner of her eye at Derek. He was still occupied with the people in fr=
ont.
She turned to the man on her right. She was not the slave to etiquette that
Freddie was. She was much too interested in life to refrain from speaking to
strangers.
"You shocked
him!" she said, dimpling.
"Yes. It bro=
ke
Freddie all up, didn't it!"
It was Jill's tur=
n to
be startled. She looked at him in astonishment.
"Freddie?&qu=
ot;
"That was
Freddie Rooke, wasn't it? Surely I wasn't mistaken?"
"But--do you
know him? He didn't seem to know you."
"These are
life's tragedies. He has forgotten me. My boyhood friend!"
"Oh, you wer=
e at
school with him?"
"No. Freddie
went to Winchester, if I remember. I was at Haileybury. Our acquaintance was
confined to the holidays. My people lived near his people in Worcestershire=
."
"Worcestersh=
ire!"
Jill leaned forward excitedly. "But I used to live near Freddie in
Worcestershire myself when I was small. I knew him there when he was a boy.=
We
must have met!"
"We met all
right."
Jill wrinkled her
forehead. That odd familiar look was in his eyes again. But memory failed to
respond. She shook her head.
"I don't
remember you," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Never mind.
Perhaps the recollection would have been painful."
"How do you
mean, painful?"
"Well, looki=
ng
back, I can see that I must have been a very unpleasant child. I have always
thought it greatly to the credit of my parents that they let me grow up. It
would have been so easy to have dropped something heavy on me out of a wind=
ow.
They must have been tempted a hundred times, but they refrained. Yes, I was=
a
great pest around the home. My only redeeming point was the way I worshipped
you!"
"What!"=
"Oh, yes. You probably didn't notice it at the time, for I had a curious way of expressin= g my adoration. But you remain the brightest memory of a checkered youth."<= o:p>
Jill searched his
face with grave eyes, then shook her head again. "Nothing stirs?"
asked the man sympathetically.
"It's too
maddening! Why does one forget things?" She reflected. "You aren't
Bobby Morrison?"
"I am not. W=
hat
is more, I never was!"
Jill dived into t=
he
past once more and emerged with another possibility.
"Or
Charlie--Charlie what was it?--Charlie Field?"
"You wound m=
e!
Have you forgotten that Charlie Field wore velvet Lord Fauntleroy suits and
long golden curls? My past is not smirched with anything like that."
"Would I
remember your name if you told me?"
"I don't kno=
w.
I've forgotten yours. Your surname, that is. Of course I remember that your
Christian name was Jill. It has always seemed to me the prettiest monosylla=
ble
in the language." He looked at her thoughtfully. "It's odd how li=
ttle
you've altered in looks. Freddie's just the same, too, only larger. And he
didn't wear an eye-glass in those days, though I can see he was bound to la=
ter
on. And yet I've changed so much that you can't place me. It shows what a
wearing life I must have led. I feel like Rip van Winkle. Old and withered.=
But
that may be just the result of watching this play."
"It is pretty
terrible, isn't it?"
"Worse than
that. Looking at it dispassionately, I find it the extreme, ragged, outermo=
st
edge of the limit. Freddie had the correct description of it. He's a great
critic."
"I really do
think it's the worst thing I have ever seen."
"I don't know
what plays you have seen, but I feel you're right."
"Perhaps the
second act's better," said Jill optimistically.
"It's worse.=
I
know that sounds like boasting, but it's true. I feel like getting up and
making a public apology."
"But . . .
Oh!"
Jill turned scarl=
et.
A monstrous suspicion had swept over her.
"The only
trouble is," went on her companion, "that the audience would
undoubtedly lynch me. And, though it seems improbable just at the present
moment, it may be that life holds some happiness for me that's worth waiting
for. Anyway I'd rather not be torn limb from limb. A messy finish! I can ju=
st
see them rending me asunder in a spasm of perfectly justifiable fury. 'She
loves me!' Off comes a leg. 'She loves me not!' Off comes an arm. No, I thi=
nk
on the whole I'll lie low. Besides, why should I care? Let 'em suffer. It's
their own fault. They would come!"
Jill had been try=
ing
to interrupt the harangue. She was greatly concerned.
"Did you wri=
te
the play?"
The man nodded.
"You are qui=
te
right to speak in that horrified tone. But, between ourselves and on the
understanding that you don't get up and denounce me, I did."
"Oh, I'm so
sorry!"
"Not half so
sorry as I am, believe me!"
"I mean, I
wouldn't have said . . ."
"Never mind.=
You
didn't tell me anything I didn't know." The lights began to go down. He
rose. "Well, they're off again. Perhaps you will excuse me? I don't fe=
el
quite equal to assisting any longer at the wake. If you want something to
occupy your mind during the next act, try to remember my name."
He slid from his =
seat
and disappeared. Jill clutched at Derek.
"Oh, Derek, =
it's
too awful. I've just been talking to the man who wrote this play, and I told
him it was the worst thing I had ever seen!"
"Did you?&qu=
ot;
Derek snorted. "Well, it's about time somebody told him!" A thoug=
ht
seemed to strike him. "Why, who is he? I didn't know you knew him.&quo=
t;
"I don't. I
don't even know his name."
"His name,
according to the programme, is John Grant. Never heard of him before. Jill,=
I
wish you would not talk to people you don't know," said Derek with a n=
ote
of annoyance in his voice. "You can never tell who they are."
"But . . .&q=
uot;
"Especially =
with
my mother here. You must be more careful."
The curtain rose.
Jill saw the stage mistily. From childhood up, she had never been able to c=
ure
herself of an unfortunate sensitiveness when sharply spoken to by those she
loved. A rebuking world she could face with a stout heart, but there had al=
ways
been just one or two people whose lightest word of censure could crush her.=
Her
father had always had that effect upon her, and now Derek had taken his pla=
ce.
But if there had =
only
been time to explain . . . Derek could not object to her chatting with a fr=
iend
of her childhood, even if she had completely forgotten him and did not reme=
mber
his name even now. John Grant? Memory failed to produce any juvenile John G=
rant
for her inspection.
Puzzling over this
problem, Jill missed much of the beginning of the second act. Hers was a
detachment which the rest of the audience would gladly have shared. For the
poetic drama, after a bad start, was now plunging into worse depths of duln=
ess.
The coughing had become almost continuous. The stalls, supported by the
presence of large droves of Sir Chester's personal friends, were struggling=
gallantly
to maintain a semblance of interest, but the pit and gallery had plainly gi=
ven
up hope. The critic of a weekly paper of small circulation, who had been sh=
oved
up in the upper circle, grimly jotted down the phrase "apathetically
received" on his programme. He had come to the theatre that night in an
aggrieved mood, for managers usually put him in the dress-circle. He got out
his pencil again. Another phrase had occurred to him, admirable for the ope=
ning
of his article. "At the Leicester Theatre," he wrote, "where=
Sir
Chester Portwood presented 'Tried by Fire,' dulness reigned supreme. . .
."
But you never kno=
w.
Call no evening dull till it is over. However uninteresting its early stages
may have been, that night was to be as animated and exciting as any audience
could desire,--a night to be looked back to and talked about. For just as t=
he
critic of London Gossip wrote those damning words on his programme, guiding=
his
pencil uncertainly in the dark, a curious yet familiar odor stole over the
house.
The stalls got it
first, and sniffed. It rose to the dress-circle, and the dress-circle sniff=
ed.
Floating up, it smote the silent gallery. And, suddenly, coming to life wit=
h a
single-minded abruptness, the gallery ceased to be silent.
"Fire!"=
Sir Chester Portw=
ood,
ploughing his way through a long speech, stopped and looked apprehensively =
over
his shoulder. The girl with the lisp, who had been listening in a perfuncto=
ry
manner to the long speech, screamed loudly. The voice of an unseen stage-ha=
nd
called thunderously to an invisible "Bill" to cummere quick. And =
from
the scenery on the prompt side there curled lazily across the stage a black
wisp of smoke.
"Fire! Fire!
Fire!"
"Just,"
said a voice at Jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" The mysteri=
ous
author was back in his seat again.
1.
In these days when
the authorities who watch over the welfare of the community have taken the
trouble to reiterate encouragingly in printed notices that a full house can=
be
emptied in three minutes and that all an audience has to do in an emergency=
is
to walk, not run, to the nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good =
deal
of its old-time terror. Yet it would be paltering with the truth to say tha=
t the
audience which had assembled to witness the opening performance of the new =
play
at the Leicester was entirely at its ease. The asbestos curtain was already=
on
its way down, which should have been reassuring: but then asbestos curtains
never look the part. To the lay eye they seem just the sort of thing that w=
ill
blaze quickest. Moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchb=
oard
to turn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting.
Portions of the h=
ouse
were taking the thing better than other portions. Up in the gallery a vast
activity was going on. The clatter of feet almost drowned the shouting. A
moment before it would have seemed incredible that anything could have made=
the
occupants of the gallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had
put new life into them.
The stalls had not
yet entirely lost their self-control. Alarm was in the air, but for the mom=
ent
they hung on the razor-edge between panic and dignity. Panic urged them to =
do
something sudden and energetic: dignity counselled them to wait. They, like=
the
occupants of the gallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad for=
m to
rush and jostle. The men were assisting the women into their cloaks, assuri=
ng
them the while that it was "all right" and that they must not be
frightened. But another curl of smoke had crept out just before the asbestos
curtain completed its descent, and their words lacked the ring of convictio=
n.
The movement towards the exits had not yet become a stampede, but already t=
hose
with seats nearest the stage had begun to feel that the more fortunate indi=
viduals
near the doors were infernally slow in removing themselves.
Suddenly, as if by
mutual inspiration, the composure of the stalls began to slip. Looking from
above, one could have seen a sort of shudder run through the crowd. It was =
the
effect of every member of that crowd starting to move a little more quickly=
.
A hand grasped Ji=
ll's
arm. It was a comforting hand, the hand of a man who had not lost his head.=
A
pleasant voice backed up its message of reassurance.
"It's no good
getting into that mob. You might get hurt. There's no danger: the play isn't
going on."
Jill was shaken: =
but
she had the fighting spirit and hated to show that she was shaken. Panic was
knocking at the door of her soul, but dignity refused to be dislodged.
"All the
same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be nice to =
get
out, wouldn't it?"
"I was just
going to suggest something of that very sort," said the man beside her.
"The same thought occurred to me. We can stroll out quite comfortably =
by
our own private route. Come along."
Jill looked over =
her
shoulder. Derek and Lady Underhill were merged into the mass of refugees. S=
he
could not see them. For an instant a little spasm of pique stung her at the
thought that Derek had deserted her. She groped her way after her companion,
and presently they came by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading=
to
the stage.
As it opened, smo=
ke
blew through, and the smell of burning was formidable. Jill recoiled
involuntarily.
"It's all
right," said her companion. "It smells worse than it really is. A=
nd,
anyway, this is the quickest way out."
They passed throu=
gh
onto the stage, and found themselves in a world of noise and confusion comp=
ared
with which the auditorium which they had left had been a peaceful place. Sm=
oke
was everywhere. A stage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowi=
ng.
From somewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came a sou=
nd
of chopping. Jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard, groped, fou=
nd a
handle, and turned it. In the narrow space between the corner of the prosce=
nium
and the edge of the asbestos curtain lights flashed up: and simultaneously
there came a sudden diminution of the noise from the body of the house. The
stalls, snatched from the intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see
each other's faces, discovered that they had been behaving indecorously and=
checked
their struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. The relief would be only
momentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic.
"Go straight
across the stage," Jill heard her companion say, "out along the
passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at the stage-door. I think, as
there seems no one else around to do it, I'd better go out and say a few
soothing words to the customers. Otherwise they'll be biting holes in each
other."
He squeezed throu=
gh
the narrow opening in front of the curtain.
"Ladies and
gentlemen!"
Jill remained whe=
re
she was, leaning with one hand against the switchboard. She made no attempt=
to
follow the directions he had given her. She was aware of a sense of
comradeship, of being with this man in this adventure. If he stayed, she mu=
st
stay. To go now through the safety of the stage-door would be abominable
desertion. She listened, and found that she could hear plainly in spite of =
the noise.
The smoke was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that the figures of the
theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed like Brocken specters. She sli=
pped
a corner of her cloak across her mouth, and was able to breathe more easily=
.
"Ladies and
gentlemen, I assure you that there is absolutely no danger. I am a stranger=
to
you, so there is no reason why you should take my word, but fortunately I c=
an
give you solid proof. If there were any danger, I wouldn't be here. All that
has happened is that the warmth of your reception of the play has set a pie=
ce
of scenery alight. . . ."
A crimson-faced
stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands, roared in Jill's ear.
"Gerroutofit=
!"
Jill looked at hi=
m,
puzzled.
"'Op it!&quo=
t;
shouted the stage-hand. He cast his axe down with a clatter. "Can't you
see the place is afire?"
"But--but I'm
waiting for . . ." Jill pointed to where her ally was still addressing=
an
audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listen to him.
The stage-hand
squinted out round the edge of the curtain.
"If he's a
friend of yours, miss, kindly get 'im to cheese it and get a move on. We're
clearing out. There's nothing we can do. It's got too much of an 'old. In a=
bout
another two ticks the roof's going to drop on us."
Jill's friend came
squeezing back through the opening.
"Hullo! Still
here?" He blinked approvingly at her through the smoke. "You're a
little soldier! Well, Augustus, what's on your mind?" The simple quest=
ion
seemed to take the stage-hand aback.
"Wot's on my
mind? I'll tell you wot's on my blinking mind . . ."
"Don't tell =
me.
Let me guess. I've got it! The place is on fire!"
The stage-hand
expectorated disgustedly. Flippancy at such a moment offended his
sensibilities.
"We're 'oppi=
ng
it," he said.
"Great minds=
think
alike! We are hopping it, too."
"You'd bette=
r!
And damn quick!"
"And, as you
suggest, damn quick! You think of everything!"
Jill followed him
across the stage. Her heart was beating violently. There was not only smoke
now, but heat. Across the stage little scarlet flames were shooting, and
something large and hard, unseen through the smoke, fell with a crash. The =
air
was heavy with the smell of burning paint.
"Where's Sir
Portwood Chester?" enquired her companion of the stage-hand, who hurri=
ed
beside them.
"'Opped
it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as he swallowed
smoke.
"Strange,&qu=
ot;
said the man in Jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "This way. Stick to
me. Strange how the drama anticipates life! At the end of act two there was=
a
scene where Sir Chester had to creep sombrely out into the night, and now h=
e's
gone and done it! Ah!"
They had stumbled
through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage, where the air, though
tainted, was comparatively fresh. Jill drew a deep breath. Her companion tu=
rned
to the stage-hand and felt in his pocket.
"Here,
Rollo!" A coin changed hands. "Go and get a drink. You need it af=
ter
all this."
"Thank you,
sir."
"Don't menti=
on
it. You've saved our lives. Suppose you hadn't come up and told us, and we =
had
never noticed there was a fire! Charred bones, believed to be those of a man
and a woman, were found in the ruined edifice!"
He turned to Jill.
"Here's the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrely out into the night?&qu=
ot;
The guardian of t=
he
stage-door was standing in the entrance of his little hutch, plainly perple=
xed.
He was a slow thinker and a man whose life was ruled by routine: and the ev=
ents
of the evening had left him uncertain how to act.
"Wot's all t=
his
about a fire?" he demanded.
Jill's friend
stopped.
"A fire?&quo=
t;
He looked at Jill. "Did you hear anything about a fire?"
"They all co=
me
bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persisted the door-man.
"By George! =
Now
I come to think of it, you're perfectly right! There is a fire! If you wait=
here
a little longer, you'll get it in the small of the back. Take the advice of=
an
old friend who means you well and vanish. In the inspired words of the lad
we've just parted from, 'op it!"
The stage-door man
turned this over in his mind for a space.
"But I'm
supposed to stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up!" he said.
"That's what I'm supposed to do. Stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock=
up!
And it ain't but ten-forty-five now."
"I see the
difficulty," said Jill's companion thoughtfully. "It's what you m=
ight
call an impasse. French! Well, Casabianca, I'm afraid I don't see how to he=
lp
you. It's a matter for your own conscience. I don't want to lure you from t=
he
burning deck: on the other hand, if you stick on here, you'll most certainl=
y be
fried on both sides . . . But, tell me. You spoke about locking up somethin=
g at
eleven-thirty. What are you supposed to lock up?"
"Why, the
theatre."
"Then that's=
all
right. By eleven-thirty there won't be a theatre. If I were you, I should l=
eave
quietly and unostentatiously now. Tomorrow, if you wish it, and if they've
cooled off sufficiently, you can come and sit on the ruins. Good night!&quo=
t;
2.
Outside, the air =
was
cold and crisp. Jill drew her warm cloak closer. Round the corner there was
noise and shouting. Fire-engines had arrived. Jill's companion lit a cigare=
tte.
"Do you wish=
to
stop and see the conflagration?" he asked.
Jill shivered. She
was more shaken than she had realized.
"I've seen a=
ll
the conflagration I want."
"Same here.
Well, it's been an exciting evening. Started slow, I admit, but warmed up
later! What I seem to need at the moment is a restorative stroll along the
Embankment. Do you know, Sir Portwood Chester didn't like the title of my p=
lay.
He said 'Tried by Fire' was too melodramatic. Well, he can't say now it was=
n't
appropriate."
They made their w=
ay
towards the river, avoiding the street which was blocked by the crowds and =
the
fire-engines. As they crossed the Strand, the man looked back. A red glow w=
as
in the sky.
"A great
blaze!" he said. "What you might call--in fact what the papers wi=
ll
call--a holocaust. Quite a treat for the populace."
"Do you think
they will be able to put it out?"
"Not a chanc=
e.
It's got too much of a hold. It's a pity you hadn't that garden-hose of you=
rs
with you, isn't it!"
Jill stopped,
wide-eyed.
"Garden-hose=
?"
"Don't you
remember the garden-hose? I do! I can feel that clammy feeling of the water
trickling down my back now!"
Memory, always a
laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by an eleventh-hour rush, raced =
back
to Jill. The Embankment turned to a sunlit garden, and the January night to=
a
July day. She stared at him. He was looking at her with a whimsical smile. =
It
was a smile which, pleasant today, had seemed mocking and hostile on that a=
fternoon
years ago. She had always felt then that he was laughing at her, and at the=
age
of twelve she had resented laughter at her expense.
"You surely
can't be Wally Mason!"
"I was wonde=
ring
when you would remember."
"But the
programme called you something else,--John something."
"That was a
cunning disguise. Wally Mason is the only genuine and official name. And, by
Jove! I've just remembered yours. It was Mariner. By the way,"--he pau=
sed
for an almost imperceptible instant--"is it still?"
1.
Jill was hardly a=
ware
that he had asked her a question. She was suffering that momentary sense of
unreality which comes to us when the years roll away and we are thrown abru=
ptly
hack into the days of our childhood. The logical side of her mind was quite=
aware
that there was nothing remarkable in the fact that Wally Mason, who had bee=
n to
her all these years a boy in an Eton suit, should now present himself as a
grown man. But for all that the transformation had something of the effect =
of a
conjuring-trick. It was not only the alteration in his appearance that star=
tled
her: it was the amazing change in his personality. Wally Mason had been the
bete noire of her childhood. She had never failed to look back at the episo=
de
of the garden-hose with the feeling that she had acted well, that--however =
she
might have strayed in those early days from the straight and narrow path--in
that one particular crisis she had done the right thing. And now she had ta=
ken
an instant liking for him. Easily as she made friends, she had seldom before
felt so immediately drawn to a strange man. Gone was the ancient hostility,=
and
in its place a soothing sense of comradeship. The direct effect of this was=
to
make Jill feel suddenly old. It was as if some link that joined her to her =
childhood
had been snapped.
She glanced down =
the
Embankment. Close by, to the left, Waterloo Bridge loomed up, dark and mass=
ive
against the steel-gray sky, A tram-car, full of home-bound travellers,
clattered past over rails that shone with the peculiarly frostbitten gleam =
that
seems to herald snow. Across the river, everything was dark and mysterious,
except for an occasional lamp-post and the dim illumination of the wharves.=
It
was a depressing prospect, and the thought crossed her mind that to the
derelicts whose nightly resting-place was a seat on the Embankment the view
must seem even bleaker than it did to herself. She gave a little shiver.
Somehow this sudden severance from the old days had brought with it a
forlornness. She seemed to be standing alone in a changed world.
"Cold?"
said Wally Mason.
"A little.&q=
uot;
"Let's
walk."
They moved westwa=
rds.
Cleopatra's Needle shot up beside them, a pointing finger. Down on the sile=
nt
river below, coffin-like row-boats lay moored to the wall. Through a break =
in
the trees the clock over the Houses of Parliament shone for an instant as i=
f suspended
in the sky, then vanished as the trees closed in. A distant barge in the
direction of Battersea wailed and was still. It had a mournful and forebodi=
ng
sound. Jill shivered again. It annoyed her that she could not shake off this
quite uncalled-for melancholy, but it withstood every effort. Why she should
have felt that a chapter, a pleasant chapter, in the book of her life had b=
een
closed, she could not have said, but the feeling lingered.
"Correct me =
if I
am wrong," said Wally Mason, breaking a silence that had lasted several
minutes, "but you seem to me to be freezing in your tracks. Ever since=
I
came to London I've had a habit of heading for the Embankment in times of m=
ental
stress, but perhaps the middle of winter is not quite the moment for commun=
ing
with the night. The Savoy is handy, if we stop walking away from it. I thin=
k we
might celebrate this reunion with a little supper, don't you?"
Jill's depression
disappeared magically. Her mercurial temperament asserted itself.
"Lights!&quo=
t;
she said. "Music!"
"And food! T=
o an
ethereal person like you that remark may seem gross, but I had no dinner.&q=
uot;
"You poor de=
ar!
Why not?"
"Just
nervousness."
"Why, of
course." The interlude of the fire had caused her to forget his private
and personal connection with the night's events. Her mind went back to
something he had said in the theatre. "Wally--" She stopped, a li=
ttle
embarrassed. "I suppose I ought to call you Mr Mason, but I've always
thought of you . . ."
"Wally, if y=
ou
please, Jill. It's not as though we were strangers. I haven't my book of
etiquette with me, but I fancy that about eleven gallons of cold water down=
the
neck constitutes an introduction. What were you going to say?"
"It was what=
you
said to Freddie about putting up money. Did you really?"
"Put up the
money for that ghastly play? I did. Every cent. It was the only way to get =
it
put on."
"But why . .=
. ?
I forget what I was going to say!"
"Why did I w=
ant
it put on? Well, it does seem odd, but I give you my honest word that until
tonight I thought the darned thing a masterpiece. I've been writing musical
comedies for the last few years, and after you've done that for a while your
soul rises up within you and says, 'Come, come, my lad! You can do better t=
han this!'
That's what mine said, and I believed it. Subsequent events have proved that
Sidney the Soul was pulling my leg!"
"But--then
you've lost a great deal of money?"
"The hoarded
wealth, if you don't mind my being melodramatic for a moment, of a lifetime.
And no honest old servitor who dangled me on his knee as a baby to come alo=
ng
and offer me his savings! They don't make servitors like that in America, w=
orse
luck. There is a Swedish lady who looks after my simple needs back there, b=
ut
instinct tells me that, if I were to approach her on the subject of looseni=
ng
up for the benefit of the young master, she would call a cop. Still, I've g=
ained
experience, which they say is just as good as cash, and I've enough money l=
eft
to pay the check, at any rate, so come along."
=
*
* &nbs=
p;
*
In the supper-roo=
m of
the Savoy Hotel there was, as anticipated, food and light and music. It was
still early, and the theatres had not yet emptied themselves, so that the f=
og
room was as yet but half full. Wally Mason had found a table in the corner,=
and
proceeded to order with the concentration of a hungry man.
"Forgive my
dwelling so tensely on the bill-of-fare," he said, when the waiter had
gone. "You don't know what it means to one in my condition to have to
choose between poulet en casserole and kidneys a la maitre d'hotel. A man's
cross-roads!"
Jill smiled happi=
ly
across the table at him. She could hardly believe that this old friend with
whom she had gone through the perils of the night and with whom she was now
about to feast was the sinister figure that had cast a shadow on her childh=
ood.
He looked positively incapable of pulling a little girl's hair--as no doubt=
he
was.
"You always =
were
greedy," she commented. "Just before I turned the hose on you, I
remember you had made yourself thoroughly disliked by pocketing a piece of =
my
birthday-cake."
"Do you reme=
mber
that?" His eyes lit up and he smiled back at her. He had an ingratiati=
ng
smile. His mouth was rather wide, and it seemed to stretch right across his
face. He reminded Jill more than ever of a big, friendly dog. "I can f=
eel
it now,--all squashy in my pocket, inextricably mingled with a catapult, a
couple of marbles, a box of matches, and some string. I was quite the human
general store in those days. Which reminds me that we have been some time
settling down to an exchange of our childhood reminiscences, haven't we?&qu=
ot;
"I've been
trying to realise that you are Wally Mason. You have altered so."
"For the
better?"
"Very much f=
or
the better! You were a horrid little brute. You used to terrify me. I never
knew when you were going to bound out at me from behind a tree or something=
. I
remember your chasing me for miles, shrieking at the top of your voice!&quo=
t;
"Sheer
embarrassment! I told you just now how I used to worship you. If I shrieked=
a
little, it was merely because I was shy. I did it to hide my devotion."=
;
"You certain=
ly
succeeded. I never even suspected it."
Wally sighed.
"How like li=
fe!
I never told my love, but let concealment like a worm i' the bud . . ."=
;
"Talking of
worms, you once put one down my back!"
"No, no,&quo=
t;
said Wally in a shocked voice. "Not that! I was boisterous, perhaps, b=
ut
surely always the gentleman."
"You did! In=
the
shrubbery. There had been a thunderstorm and . . ."
"I remember =
the
incident now. A mere misunderstanding. I had done with the worm, and thought
you might be glad to have it."
"You were al=
ways
doing things like that. Once you held me over the pond and threatened to dr=
op
me into the water--in the winter! Just before Christmas. It was a particula=
rly
mean thing to do, because I couldn't even kick your shins for fear you would
let me fall. Luckily Uncle Chris came up and made you stop."
"You conside=
red
that a fortunate occurrence, did you?" said Wally. "Well, perhaps
from your point of view it may have been. I saw the thing from a different
angle. Your uncle had a whangee with him, and the episode remains
photographically lined on the tablets of my mind when a yesterday has faded
from its page. My friends sometimes wonder what I mean when I say that my o=
ld
wound troubles me in frosty weather. By the way, how is your uncle?"
"Oh, he's ve=
ry
well. Just as lazy as ever. He's away at present, down at Brighton."
"He didn't s=
trike
me as lazy," said Wally thoughtfully. "Dynamic would express it
better. But perhaps I happened to encounter him in a moment of energy."=
;
"He doesn't =
look
a day older than he did then."
"I'm afraid I
don't recall his appearance very distinctly. On the only occasion on which =
we
ever really foregathered--hobnobbed, so to speak--he was behind me most of =
the
time. Ah!" The waiter had returned with a loaded tray. "The food!
Forgive me if I seem a little distrait for a moment or two. There is man's =
work
before me!"
"And later o=
n, I
suppose, you would like a chop or something to take away in your pocket?&qu=
ot;
"I will thin=
k it
over. Possibly a little soup. My needs are very simple these days."
Jill watched him =
with
a growing sense of satisfaction. There was something boyishly engaging about
this man. She felt at home with him. He affected her in much the same way as
did Freddie Rooke. He was a definite addition to the things that went to ma=
ke
her happy.
She liked him
particularly for being such a good loser. She had always been a good loser
herself, and the quality was one which she admired. It was nice of him to
dismiss from his conversation--and apparently from his thoughts--that night=
's
fiasco and all that it must have cost him. She wondered how much he had los=
t.
Certainly something very substantial. Yet it seemed to trouble him not at a=
ll. Jill
considered his behavior gallant, and her heart warmed to him. This was how a
man ought to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Wally sighed
contentedly, and leaned back in his chair.
"An unpleasa=
nt
exhibition!" he said apologetically. "But unavoidable. And, anywa=
y, I
take it that you would prefer to have me well-fed and happy about the place
than swooning on the floor with starvation. A wonderful thing, food! I am n=
ow
ready to converse intelligently on any subject you care to suggest. I have
eaten rose-leaves and am no more a golden ass, so to speak! What shall we t=
alk
about?"
"Tell me abo=
ut
yourself."
Wally beamed.
"There is no
nobler topic! But what aspect of myself do you wish me to touch on? My
thoughts, my tastes, my amusements, my career, or what? I can talk about my=
self
for hours. My friends in New York often complain about it bitterly."
"New York?&q=
uot;
said Jill. "Oh then you live in America?"
"Yes. I only
came over here to see that darned false alarm of a play of mine put on.&quo=
t;
"Why didn't =
you
put it on in New York?"
"Too many of=
the
lads of the village know me over there. This was a new departure, you see. =
What
the critics in those parts expect from me is something entitled 'Wow! Wow!'=
or
'The Girl from Yonkers'. It would have unsettled their minds to find me
breaking out in poetic drama. They are men of coarse fibre and ribald mind =
and
they would have been very funny about it. I thought it wiser to come over h=
ere among
strangers, little thinking that I should sit in the next seat to somebody I=
had
known all my life."
"But when did
you go to America? And why?"
"I think it =
must
have been four--five--well, quite a number of years after the hose episode.
Probably you didn't observe that I wasn't still around, but we crept silent=
ly
out of the neighborhood round about that time and went to live in London.&q=
uot;
His tone lost its lightness momentarily. "My father died, you know, and
that sort of broke things up. He didn't leave any too much money, either. A=
pparently
we had been living on rather too expansive a scale during the time I knew y=
ou.
At any rate, I was more or less up against it until your father got me a jo=
b in
an office in New York."
"My
father!"
"Yes. It was
wonderfully good of him to bother about me. I didn't suppose he would have
known me by sight, and even if he had remembered me, I shouldn't have imagi=
ned
that the memory would have been a pleasant one. But he couldn't have taken =
more
trouble if I had been a blood-relation."
"That was ju=
st
like father," said Jill softly.
"He was a
prince."
"But you are=
n't
in the office now?"
"No. I found=
I
had a knack of writing verses and things, and I wrote a few vaudeville song=
s.
Then I came across a man named Bevan at a music-publisher's. He was just
starting to write music, and we got together and turned out some vaudeville
sketches, and then a manager sent for us to fix up a show that was dying on=
the
road and we had the good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it =
was
pretty good going. Managers are just like sheep. They know nothing whatever=
about
the show business themselves, and they come flocking after anybody who look=
s as
if he could turn out the right stuff. They never think any one any good exc=
ept
the fellow who had the last hit. So, while your luck lasts, you have to keep
them off with a stick. Then you have a couple of failures, and they skip off
after somebody else, till you have another success, and then they all come
skipping back again, bleating plaintively. George Bevan got married the oth=
er day--you
probably read about it--he married Lord Marshmoreton's daughter. Lucky
devil!"
"Are you
married?"
"No."
"You were
faithful to my memory?" said Jill with a smile.
"I was."=
;
"It can't
last," said Jill, shaking her head. "One of these days you'll meet
some lovely American girl and then you'll put a worm down her back or pull =
her
hair or whatever it is you do when you want to show your devotion, and . . .
What are you looking at? Is something interesting going on behind me?"=
He had been looki=
ng
past her out into the room.
"It's
nothing," he said. "Only there's a statuesque old lady about two
tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervals for refreshm=
ent,
for the last five minutes. You seem to fascinate her."
"An old
lady?"
"Yes. With a
glare! She looks like Dunsany's Bird of the Difficult Eye. Count ten and tu=
rn
carelessly round. There, at that table. Almost behind you."
"Good
Heavens!" exclaimed Jill.
She turned quickly
round again.
"What's the
matter? Do you know her? Somebody you don't want to meet?"
"It's Lady
Underhill! And Derek's with her!"
Wally had been
lifting his glass. He put it down rather suddenly.
"Derek?"=
; he
said.
"Derek
Underhill. The man I'm engaged to marry."
There was a momen=
t's
silence.
"Oh!" s=
aid
Wally thoughtfully. "The man you're engaged to marry? Yes, I see!"=
;
He raised his gla=
ss
again, and drank its contents quickly.
2.
Jill looked at her
companion anxiously. Recent events had caused her completely to forget the
existence of Lady Underhill. She was always so intensely interested in what=
she
happened to be doing at the moment that she often suffered these temporary
lapses of memory. It occurred to her now,--too late, as usual,--that the Sa=
voy
Hotel was the last place in London where she should have come to supper wit=
h Wally.
It was the hotel where Lady Underhill was staying. She frowned. Life had
suddenly ceased to be careless and happy, and had become a problem-ridden
thing, full of perplexity and misunderstandings.
"What shall I
do?"
Wally Mason start=
ed
at the sound of her voice. He appeared to be deep in thoughts of his own.
"I beg your
pardon?"
"What shall I
do?"
"I shouldn't=
be
worried."
"Derek will =
be
awfully cross."
Wally's good-humo=
red
mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Why?" =
he
said. "There's nothing wrong in your having supper with an old
friend."
"N-no,"
said Jill doubtfully. "But . . ."
"Derek
Underhill," said Wally reflectively. "Is that Sir Derek Underhill,
whose name one's always seeing in the papers?"
"Derek is in=
the
papers a lot. He's an M.P. and all sorts of things."
"Good-looking
fellow. Ah, here's the coffee."
"I don't want
any, thanks."
"Nonsense. W=
hy
spoil your meal because of this? Do you smoke?"
"No,
thanks."
"Given it up,
eh? Daresay you're wise. Stunts the growth and increases the expenses."=
;
"Given it
up?"
"Don't you
remember sharing one of your father's cigars with me behind the haystack in=
the
meadow? We cut it in half. I finished my half, but I fancy about three puffs
were enough for you. Those were happy days!"
"That one
wasn't! Of course I remember it now. I don't suppose I shall ever forget
it."
"The thing w=
as
my fault, as usual. I recollect I dared you."
"Yes. I alwa=
ys
took a dare."
"Do you
still?"
"What do you
mean?"
Wally knocked the=
ash
off his cigarette.
"Well,"=
he
said slowly, "suppose I were to dare you to get up and walk over to th=
at
table and look your fiancé in the eye and say, 'Stop scowling at my =
back
hair! I've a perfect right to be supping with an old friend!'--would you do
it?"
"Is he?"
said Jill, startled.
"Scowling? C=
an't
you feel it on the back of your head?" He drew thoughtfully at his
cigarette. "If I were you I should stop that sort of thing at the sour=
ce.
It's a habit that can't be discouraged in a husband too early. Scowling is =
the
civilized man's substitute for wife-beating."
Jill moved
uncomfortably in her chair. Her quick temper resented his tone. There was a
hostility, a hardly veiled contempt in his voice which stung her. Derek was
sacred. Whoever criticized him, presumed. Wally, a few minutes before a fri=
end
and an agreeable companion, seemed to her to have changed. He was once more=
the
boy whom she had disliked in the old days. There was a gleam in her eyes wh=
ich
should have warned him, but he went on.
"I should
imagine that this Derek of yours is not one of our leading sunbeams. Well, I
suppose he could hardly be, if that's his mother and there is anything in
heredity."
"Please don't
criticize Derek," said Jill coldly.
"I was only
saying . . ."
"Never mind.=
I
don't like it."
A slow flush crept
over Wally's face. He made no reply, and there fell between them a silence =
that
was like a shadow. Jill sipped her coffee miserably. She was regretting tha=
t little
spurt of temper. She wished she could have recalled the words. Not that it =
was
the actual words that had torn asunder this gossamer thing, the friendship
which they had begun to weave like some fragile web: it was her manner, the=
manner
of the princess rebuking an underling. She knew that, if she had struck him,
she could not have offended Wally more deeply. There are some men whose
ebullient natures enable them to rise unscathed from the worst snub. Wally,=
her
intuition told her, was not that kind of man.
There was only one
way of mending the matter. In these clashes of human temperaments, these su=
dden
storms that spring up out of a clear sky, it is possible sometimes to repair
the damage, if the psychological moment is resolutely seized, by talking
rapidly and with detachment on neutral topics. Words have made the rift, an=
d words
alone can bridge it. But neither Jill nor her companion could find words, a=
nd
the silence lengthened grimly. When Wally spoke, it was in the level tones =
of a
polite stranger.
"Your friends
have gone."
His voice was the
voice in which, when she went on railway journeys, fellow-travellers in the
carriage enquired of Jill if she would prefer the window up or down. It had=
the
effect of killing her regrets and feeding her resentment. She was a girl who
never refused a challenge, and she set herself to be as frigidly polite and
aloof as he.
"Really?&quo=
t;
she said. "When did they leave?"
"A moment
ago." The lights gave the warning flicker that announces the arrival of
the hour of closing. In the momentary darkness they both rose. Wally scrawl=
ed
his name across the check which the waiter had insinuated upon his attentio=
n.
"I suppose we had better be moving?"
They crossed the =
room
in silence. Everybody was moving in the same direction. The broad stairway
leading to the lobby was crowded with chattering supper-parties. The lights=
had
gone up again.
At the cloak-room
Wally stopped.
"I see Under=
hill
waiting up there," he said casually, "To take you home, I suppose.
Shall we say good-night? I'm staying in the hotel."
Jill glanced towa=
rds
the head of the stairs. Derek was there. He was alone. Lady Underhill
presumably had gone up to her room in the elevator.
Wally was holding=
out
his hand. His face was stolid, and his eyes avoided hers.
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
he said.
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
said Jill.
She felt curiously
embarrassed. At this last moment hostility had weakened, and she was consci=
ous
of a desire to make amends. She and this man had been through much together
that night, much that was perilous and much that was pleasant. A sudden fee=
ling
of remorse came over her.
"You'll come=
and
see us, won't you?" she said a little wistfully. "I'm sure my unc=
le
would like to meet you again."
"It's very g=
ood
of you," said Wally, "but I'm afraid I shall be going back to Ame=
rica
at any moment now."
Pique, that ally =
of
the devil, regained its slipping grip upon Jill.
"Oh? I'm
sorry," she said indifferently. "Well, goodbye, then."
"Good-bye.&q=
uot;
"I hope you =
have
a pleasant voyage."
"Thanks.&quo=
t;
He turned into th=
e cloak-room,
and Jill went up the stairs to join Derek. She felt angry and depressed, fu=
ll
of a sense of the futility of things. People flashed into one's life and out
again. Where was the sense of it?
3.
Derek had been
scowling, and Derek still scowled. His eyebrows were formidable, and his mo=
uth
smiled no welcome at Jill as she approached him. The evening, portions of w=
hich
Jill had found so enjoyable, had contained no pleasant portions for Derek.
Looking back over a lifetime whose events had been almost uniformly agreeab=
le,
he told himself that he could not recall another day which had gone so comp=
letely
awry. It had started with the fog. He hated fog. Then had come that meeting
with his mother at Charing Cross, which had been enough to upset him by its=
elf.
After that, rising to a crescendo of unpleasantness, the day had provided t=
hat
appalling situation at the Albany, the recollection of which still made him
tingle; and there had followed the silent dinner, the boredom of the early =
part
of the play, the fire at the theatre, the undignified scramble for the exit=
s,
and now this discovery of the girl whom he was engaged to marry supping at =
the
Savoy with a fellow he didn't remember ever having seen in his life. All th=
ese
things combined to induce in Derek a mood bordering on ferocity. His birth =
and
income, combining to make him one of the spoiled children of the world, had
fitted him ill for such a series of catastrophes.
Breeding counts. =
Had
he belonged to a lower order of society, Derek would probably have seized J=
ill
by the throat and started to choke her. Being what he was, he merely receiv=
ed
her with frozen silence and led her out to the waiting taxi-cab. It was only
when the cab had started on its journey that he found relief in speech.
"Well,"=
he
said, mastering with difficulty an inclination to raise his voice to a shou=
t,
"perhaps you will kindly explain?"
Jill had sunk back
against the cushions of the cab. The touch of his body against hers always =
gave
her a thrill, half pleasurable, half frightening. She had never met anybody=
who
affected her in this way as Derek did. She moved a little closer, and felt =
for
his hand. But, as she touched it, it retreated--coldly. Her heart sank. It =
was
like being cut in public by somebody very dignified.
"Derek, darl=
ing!"
Her lips trembled. Others had seen this side of Derek Underhill frequently,=
for
he was a man who believed in keeping the world in its place, but she never.=
To
her he had always been the perfect gracious knight. A little too perfect,
perhaps, a trifle too gracious, possibly, but she had been too deeply in lo=
ve
to notice that. "Don't be cross!"
The English langu=
age
is the richest in the world, and yet somehow in moments when words count mo=
st
we generally choose the wrong ones. The adjective "cross" as a
description of his Jove-like wrath that consumed his whole being jarred upon
Derek profoundly. It was as though Prometheus, with the vultures tearing his
liver, had been asked if he were piqued.
"Cross!"=
;
The cab rolled on.
Lights from lamp-posts flashed in at the windows. It was a pale, anxious li=
ttle
face that they lit up when they shone upon Jill.
"I can't
understand you," said Derek at last. Jill noticed that he had not yet
addressed her by her name. He was speaking straight out in front of him as =
if
he were soliloquizing. "I simply cannot understand you. After what
happened before dinner tonight, for you to cap everything by going off alon=
e to
supper at a restaurant, where half the people in the room must have known y=
ou,
with a man . . ."
"You don't
understand!"
"Exactly! I =
said
I did not understand." The feeling of having scored a point made Derek
feel a little better. "I admit it. Your behavior is incomprehensible.
Where did you meet this fellow?"
"I met him at
the theatre. He was the author of the play."
"The man you
told me you had been talking to? The fellow who scraped acquaintance with y=
ou
between the acts?"
"But I found=
out
he was an old friend. I mean, I knew him when I was a child."
"You didn't =
tell
me that,"
"I only foun=
d it
out later."
"After he had
invited you to supper! It's maddening!" cried Derek, the sense of his
wrongs surging back over him. "What do you suppose my mother thought? =
She
asked me who the man with you was. I had to say I didn't know! What do you
suppose she thought?"
It is to be doubt=
ed
whether anything else in the world could have restored the fighting spirit =
to
Jill's cowering soul at that moment: but the reference to Lady Underhill
achieved this miracle. That deep mutual antipathy which is so much more com=
mon
than love at first sight had sprung up between the two at the instant of th=
eir
meeting. The circumstances of that meeting had caused it to take root and g=
row.
To Jill Derek's mother was by this time not so much a fellow human being wh=
om
she disliked as a something, a sort of force, that made for her unhappiness.
She was a menace and a loathing.
"If your mot=
her
had asked me that question," she retorted with spirit "I should h=
ave
told her that he was the man who got me safely out of the theatre after you=
. .
." She checked herself. She did not want to say the unforgiveable thin=
g.
"You see," she said, more quietly, "you had disappeared. . .
."
"My mother i=
s an
old woman," said Derek stiffly. "Naturally I had to look after he=
r. I
called to you to follow."
"Oh, I
understand. I'm simply trying to explain what happened. I was there all alo=
ne,
and Wally Mason . . ."
"Wally!"
Derek uttered a short laugh, almost a bark. "It got to Christian names,
eh?"
Jill set her teet=
h.
"I told you I
knew him as a child. I always called him Wally then."
"I beg your
pardon. I had forgotten."
"He got me o=
ut
through the pass-door onto the stage and through the stage-door."
Derek was feeling
cheated. He had the uncomfortable sensation that comes to men who grandly
contemplate mountains and . . . see them dwindle to mole-hills. The apparen=
tly
outrageous had shown itself in explanation nothing so out-of-the-way after =
all.
He seized upon the single point in Jill's behavior that still constituted a
grievance.
"There was no need for you to go to supper with the man!" Jove-like wrath had ebbed = away to something deplorably like a querulous grumble. "You should have gone straight home. You must have known how anxious I would be about you."<= o:p>
"Well, reall=
y,
Derek, dear! You didn't seem so very anxious! You were having supper yourse=
lf
quite cosily."
The human mind is
curiously constituted. It is worthy of record that, despite his mother's
obvious disapproval of his engagement, despite all the occurrences of this
dreadful day, it was not till she made this remark that Derek Underhill fir=
st
admitted to himself that, intoxicate his senses as she might, there was a
possibility that Jill Mariner was not the ideal wife for him. The idea came=
and
went more quickly than breath upon a mirror. It passed, but it had been. Th=
ere are
men who fear repartee in a wife more keenly than a sword. Derek was one of
these. Like most men of single outlook, whose dignity is their most precious
possession, he winced from an edged tongue.
"My mother w=
as
greatly upset," he replied coldly. "I thought a cup of soup would=
do
her good. And, as for being anxious about you, I telephoned to your home to=
ask
if you had come in."
"And when,&q=
uot;
thought Jill, "they told you I hadn't, you went off to supper!"
She did not speak=
the
words. If she had an edged tongue, she had also the control of it. She had =
no
wish to wound Derek. Whole-hearted in everything she did, she loved him with
her whole heart. There might be specks upon her idol--that its feet might be
clay she could never believe--but they mattered nothing. She loved him.
"I'm so sorr=
y,
dear," she said. "So awfully sorry! I've been a bad girl, haven't
I?"
She felt for his =
hand
again, and this time he allowed it to remain stiffly in her grasp. It was l=
ike
being grudgingly recognized by somebody very dignified who had his doubts a=
bout
you but reserved judgment.
The cab drew up at
the door of the house in Ovington Square which Jill's Uncle Christopher had
settled upon as a suitable address for a gentleman of his standing. ("=
In a
sense, my dear child I admit, it is Brompton Road, but it opens into Lennox
Gardens, which makes it to all intents and purposes Sloane Street") Ji=
ll
put up her face to be kissed, like a penitent child.
"I'll never =
be
naughty again!"
For a flickering =
instant
Derek hesitated. The drive, long as it was, had been too short wholly to
restore his equanimity. Then the sense of her nearness, her sweetness, the
faint perfume of her hair, and her eyes, shining softly in the darkness so
close to his own, overcame him. He crushed her to him.
Jill disappeared =
into
the house with a happy laugh. It had been a terrible day, but it had ended
well.
"The
Albany," said Derek to the cabman.
He leaned back
against the cushions. His senses were in a whirl. The cab rolled on. Presen=
tly
his exalted mood vanished as quickly as it had come. Jill absent always
affected him differently from Jill present. He was not a man of strong
imagination, and the stimulus of her waned when she was not with him. Long
before the cab reached the Albany the frown was back on his face.
4.
Arriving at the
Albany, he found Freddie Rooke lying on his spine in a deep arm-chair. His
slippered feet were on the mantelpiece, and he was restoring his wasted tis=
sues
with a strong whisky-and-soda. One of the cigars which Parker, the valet, h=
ad
stamped with the seal of his approval was in the corner of his mouth. The
Sporting Times, with a perusal of which he had been soothing his fluttered
nerves, had fallen on the floor beside the chair. He had finished reading, =
and
was now gazing peacefully at the ceiling, his mind a perfect blank. There w=
as
nothing the matter with Freddie.
"Hullo, old
thing," he observed as Derek entered. "So you buzzed out of the f=
iery
furnace all right? I was wondering how you had got along. How are you feeli=
ng?
I'm not the man I was! These things get the old system all stirred up! I'll=
do
anything in reason to oblige and help things along and all that, but to be
called on at a moment's notice to play Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego roll=
ed
into one, without rehearsal or make-up, is a bit too thick! No, young felle=
r-me-lad!
If theatre-fires are going to be the fashion this season, the Last of the
Rookes will sit quietly at home and play solitaire. Mix yourself a drink of
something, old man, or something of that kind. By the way, your jolly old
mater. All right? Not even singed? Fine! Make a long arm and gather in a
cigar."
And Freddie, havi=
ng
exerted himself to play the host in a suitable manner, wedged himself more
firmly into his chair and blew a cloud of smoke.
Derek sat down. He
lit a cigar, and stared silently at the fire. From the mantelpiece Jill's
photograph smiled down, but he did not look at it. Presently his attitude b=
egan
to weigh upon Freddie. Freddie had had a trying evening. What he wanted just
now was merry prattle, and his friend did not seem disposed to contribute h=
is
share. He removed his feet from the mantelpiece, and wriggled himself sidew=
ays,
so that he could see Derek's face. Its gloom touched him. Apart from his ad=
miration
for Derek, he was a warm-hearted young man, and sympathized with affliction
when it presented itself to his notice.
"Something on
your mind, old bean?" he enquired delicately.
Derek did not ans=
wer
for a moment. Then he reflected that, little as he esteemed the other's
mentality, he and Freddie had known each other a long time, and that it wou=
ld
be a relief to confide in some one. And Freddie, moreover, was an old frien=
d of
Jill and the man who had introduced him to her.
"Yes," =
he
said.
"I'm listeni=
ng,
old top," said Freddie. "Release the film."
Derek drew at his
cigar, and watched the smoke as it curled to the ceiling.
"It's about
Jill."
Freddie signified=
his
interest by wriggling still further sideways.
"Jill, eh?&q=
uot;
"Freddie, sh=
e's
so damned impulsive!"
Freddie nearly ro=
lled
out of his chair. This, he took it, was what writing-chappies called a
coincidence.
"Rummy you
should say that," he ejaculated. "I was telling her exactly the s=
ame
thing myself only this evening." He hesitated. "I fancy I can see
what you're driving at, old thing. The watchword is 'What ho, the mater!' y=
es,
no? You've begun to get a sort of idea that if Jill doesn't watch her step,
she's apt to sink pretty low in the betting, what? I know exactly what you
mean! You and I know all right that Jill's a topper. But one can see that to
your mater she might seem a bit different. I mean to say, your jolly old ma=
ter
only judging by first impressions, and the meeting not having come off quit=
e as
scheduled . . . I say, old man," he broke off, "fearfully sorry a=
nd
all that about that business. You know what I mean! Wouldn't have had it ha=
ppen
for the world. I take it the mater was a trifle peeved? Not to say perturbed
and chagrined? I seemed to notice at dinner."
"She was
furious, of course. She did not refer to the matter when we were alone
together, but there was no need to. I knew what she was thinking."
Derek threw away =
his
cigar. Freddie noted this evidence of an overwrought soul--the thing was on=
ly a
quarter smoked, and it was a dashed good brand, mark you--with concern.
"The whole
thing," he conceded, "was a bit unfortunate."
Derek began to pa=
ce
the room.
"Freddie!&qu=
ot;
"On the spot,
old man!"
"Something's=
got
to be done!"
"Absolutely!=
"
Freddie nodded solemnly. He had taken this matter greatly to heart. Derek w=
as
his best friend, and he had always been extremely fond of him. It hurt him =
to
see things going wrong. "I'll tell you what, old bean. Let me handle t=
his
binge for you."
"You?"<= o:p>
"Me! The Fin=
al
Rooke!" He jumped up, and leaned against the mantelpiece. "I'm the
lad to do it. I've known Jill for years. She'll listen to me. I'll talk to =
her
like a Dutch uncle and make her understand the general scheme of things. I'=
ll
take her out to tea tomorrow and slang her in no uncertain voice! Leave the
whole thing to me, laddie!"
Derek considered.=
"It might do
some good," he said.
"Good?"
said Freddie. "It's it, dear boy! It's a wheeze! You toddle off to bed=
and
have a good sleep. I'll fix the whole thing for you!"
1.
There are streets=
in
London into which the sun seems never to penetrate. Some of these are in
fashionable quarters, and it is to be supposed that their inhabitants find =
an
address which looks well on note-paper a sufficient compensation for the gl=
oom
that goes with it. The majority, however, are in the mean neighborhoods of =
the
great railway termini, and appear to offer no compensation whatever. They a=
re
lean, furtive streets, gray as the January sky with a sort of arrested deca=
y.
They smell of cabbage and are much prowled over by vagrom cats. At night th=
ey
are empty and dark, and a stillness broods on them, broken only by the crac=
ked
tingle of an occasional piano playing one of the easier hymns, a form of mu=
sic
to which the dwellers in the dingy houses are greatly addicted. By day they=
achieve
a certain animation through the intermittent appearance of women in aprons,=
who
shake rugs out of the front doors or, emerging from areas, go down to the
public-house on the corner with jugs to fetch the supper-beer. In almost ev=
ery
ground-floor window there is a card announcing that furnished lodgings may =
be
had within. You will find these streets by the score if you leave the main
thoroughfares and take a short cut on your way to Euston, to Paddington, or=
to Waterloo.
But the dingiest and deadliest and most depressing lie round about Victoria.
And Daubeny Street, Pimlico, is one of the worst of them all.
On the afternoon
following the events recorded, a girl was dressing in the ground-floor room=
of
Number Nine, Daubeny Street. A tray bearing the remains of a late breakfast
stood on the rickety table beside a bowl of wax flowers. From beneath the t=
able
peered the green cover of a copy of Variety. A gray parrot in a cage by the
window cracked seed and looked out into the room with a satirical eye. He h=
ad
seen all this so many times before,--Nelly Bryant arraying herself in her
smartest clothes to go out and besiege agents in their offices off the Stra=
nd.
It happened every day. In an hour or two she would come back as usual, say
"Oh, Gee!" in a tired sort of voice, and then Bill the parrot's d=
ay
proper would begin. He was a bird who liked the sound of his own voice, and=
he
never got the chance of a really sustained conversation till Nelly returned=
in
the evening.
"Who
cares?" said Bill, and cracked another seed.
If rooms are an
indication of the characters of their occupants, Nelly Bryant came well out=
of
the test of her surroundings. Nothing can make a London furnished room much
less horrible than it intends to be, but Nelly had done her best. The
furniture, what there was of it, was of that lodging-house kind which resem=
bles
nothing else in the world. But a few little touches here and there, a few i=
nstinctively
tasteful alterations in the general scheme of things, had given the room al=
most
a cosy air. Later on, with the gas lit, it would achieve something approach=
ing
homeiness. Nelly, like many another nomad, had taught herself to accomplish=
a
good deal with poor material. On the road in America, she had sometimes made
even a bedroom in a small hotel tolerably comfortable, than which there is =
no
greater achievement. Oddly, considering her life, she had a genius for
domesticity.
Today, not for the
first time, Nelly was feeling unhappy. The face that looked back at her out=
of
the mirror at which she was arranging her most becoming hat was weary. It w=
as
only a moderately pretty face, but loneliness and underfeeding had given it=
a
wistful expression that had charm. Unfortunately, it was not the sort of ch=
arm
which made a great appeal to the stout, whisky-nourished men who sat behind
paper-littered tables, smoking cigars, in the rooms marked "Private&qu=
ot;
in the offices of theatrical agents. Nelly had been out of a "shop&quo=
t;
now for many weeks,--ever since, in fact, "Follow the Girl" had
finished its long ran at the Regal Theatre.
"Follow the
Girl," an American musical comedy, had come over from New York with an
American company, of which Nelly had been a humble unit, and, after playing=
a
year in London and some weeks in the number one towns, had returned to New
York. It did not cheer Nelly up in the long evenings in Daubeny Street to
reflect that, if she had wished, she could have gone home with the rest of =
the
company. A mad impulse had seized her to try her luck in London, and here s=
he
was now, marooned.
"Who
cares?" said Bill.
For a bird who
enjoyed talking he was a little limited in his remarks and apt to repeat
himself.
"I do, you p=
oor
fish!" said Nelly, completing her maneuvers with the hat and turning to
the cage. "It's all right for you--you have a swell time with nothing =
to
do but sit there and eat seed--but how do you suppose I enjoy tramping arou=
nd,
looking for work and never finding any?"
She picked up her
gloves. "Oh, well!" she said. "Wish me luck!"
"Good-bye, b=
oy!"
said the parrot, clinging to the bars.
Nelly thrust a fi=
nger
into the cage and scratched his head.
"Anxious to =
get
rid of me, aren't you? Well, so long."
"Good-bye,
boy!"
"All right, =
I'm
going. Be good!"
"Woof-woof-w=
oof!"
barked Bill the parrot, not committing himself to any promises.
For some moments
after Nelly had gone he remained hunched on his perch, contemplating the
infinite. Then he sauntered along to the seed-box and took some more light
nourishment. He always liked to spread his meals out, to make them last lon=
ger.
A drink of water to wash the food down, and he returned to the middle of the
cage, where he proceeded to conduct a few intimate researches with his beak
under his left wing. After which he mewed like a cat, and relapsed into sil=
ent
meditation once more. He closed his eyes and pondered on his favorite
problem--Why was he a parrot? This was always good for an hour or so, and it
was three o'clock before he had come to his customary decision that he didn=
't
know. Then, exhausted by brain-work and feeling a trifle hipped by the sile=
nce
of the room, he looked about him for some way of jazzing existence up a lit=
tle.
It occurred to him that if he barked again it might help.
"Woof-woof-w=
oof!"
Good as far as it
went, but it did not go far enough. It was not real excitement. Something
rather more dashing seemed to him to be indicated. He hammered for a moment=
or
two on the floor of his cage, ate a mouthful of the newspaper there, and st=
ood
with his head on one side, chewing thoughtfully. It didn't taste as good as
usual. He suspected Nelly of having changed his Daily Mail for the Daily Ex=
press
or something. He swallowed the piece of paper, and was struck by the thought
that a little climbing exercise might be what his soul demanded. (You hang =
on
by your beak and claws and work your way up to the roof. It sounds tame, but
it's something to do.) He tried it. And, as he gripped the door of the cage=
, it
swung open. Bill the parrot now perceived that this was going to be one of
those days. He had not had a bit of luck like this for months.
For awhile he sat
regarding the open door. Unless excited by outside influences, he never did
anything in a hurry. Then proceeding cautiously, he passed out into the roo=
m.
He had been out there before, but always chaperoned by Nelly. This was
something quite different. It was an adventure. He hopped onto the window-s=
ill.
There was a ball of yellow wool there, but he had lunched and could eat not=
hing.
He cast around in his mind for something to occupy him, and perceived sudde=
nly
that the world was larger than he had supposed. Apparently there was a lot =
of
it outside the room. How long this had been going on, he did not know, but
obviously it was a thing to be investigated. The window was open at the bot=
tom,
and just outside the window were what he took to be the bars of another and
larger cage. As a matter of fact they were the railings which afforded a mo=
dest
protection to Number Nine. They ran the length of the house, and were much =
used
by small boys as a means of rattling sticks. One of these stick-rattlers pa=
ssed
as Bill stood there looking down. The noise startled him for a moment, then=
he
seemed to come to the conclusion that this sort of thing was to be expected=
if
you went out into the great world and that a parrot who intended to see life
must not allow himself to be deterred by trifles. He crooned a little, and
finally, stepping in a stately way over the window-sill, with his toes turn=
ed in
at right angles, caught at the top of the railing with his beak, and procee=
ded
to lower himself. Arrived at the level of the street, he stood looking out.=
A dog trotted up,
spied him, and came to sniff.
"Good-bye,
boy!" said Bill chattily.
The dog was taken
aback. Hitherto, in his limited experience, birds had been birds and men me=
n.
Here was a blend of the two. What was to be done about it? He barked
tentatively, then, finding that nothing disastrous ensued, pushed his nose
between two of the bars and barked again. Any one who knew Bill could have =
told
him that he was asking for it, and he got it. Bill leaned forward and nipped
his nose. The dog started back with a howl of agony. He was learning someth=
ing
new every minute.
"Woof-woof-w=
oof!"
said Bill sardonically.
He perceived
trousered legs, four of them, and, cocking his eye upwards, saw that two me=
n of
the lower orders stood before him. They were gazing down at him in the stol=
id
manner peculiar to the proletariat of London in the presence of the unusual.
For some minutes they stood drinking him in, then one of them gave judgment=
.
"It's a
parrot!" He removed a pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem.
"A perishin' parrot, that is, Erb."
"Ah!" s=
aid
Erb, a man of few words.
"A parrot,&q=
uot;
proceeded the other. He was seeing clearer into the matter every moment.
"That's a parrot, that is, Erb. My brother Joe's wife's sister 'ad one=
of
'em. Come from abroad, they do. My brother Joe's wife's sister 'ad one of '=
em.
Red-'aired gel she was. Married a feller down at the Docks. She 'ad one of =
'em.
Parrots they're called."
He bent down for a
closer inspection, and inserted a finger through the railings. Erb abandoned
his customary taciturnity and spoke words of warning.
"Tike care 'e
don't sting yer, 'Enry!"
Henry seemed woun=
ded.
"Woddyer mean
sting me? I know all abart parrots, I do. My brother Joe's wife's sister 'ad
one of 'em. They don't 'urt yer, not if you're kind to 'em. You know yer pa=
ls
when you see 'em, don't yer, mate?" he went on, addressing Bill, who w=
as
contemplating the finger with one half-closed eye.
"Good-bye,
boy," said the parrot, evading the point.
"Jear
that?" cried Henry delightedly. "Goo'-bye, boy!' 'Uman they are!&=
quot;
"'E'll 'ave a
piece out of yer finger," warned Erb, the suspicious.
"Wot, 'im!&q=
uot;
Henry's voice was indignant. He seemed to think that his reputation as an
expert on parrots had been challenged. "'E wouldn't 'ave no piece out =
of
my finger."
"Bet yer a
narf-pint 'e would 'ave a piece out of yer finger," persisted the skep=
tic.
"No blinkin'
parrot's goin' to 'ave no piece of no finger of mine! My brother Joe's wife=
's
sister's parrot never 'ad no piece out of no finger of mine!" He exten=
ded
the finger further and waggled it enticingly beneath Bill's beak.
"Cheerio, matey!" he said winningly. "Polly want a nut?"=
;
Whether it was me=
re
indolence or whether the advertised docility of that other parrot belonging=
to
Henry's brother's wife's sister had caused him to realize that there was a
certain standard of good conduct for his species one cannot say: but for aw=
hile
Bill merely contemplated temptation with a detached eye.
"See!" =
said
Henry.
"Woof-woof-w=
oof!"
said Bill.
"Wow-Wow-Wow=
!"
yapped the dog, suddenly returning to the scene and going on with the argum=
ent
at the point where he had left off.
The effect on Bill
was catastrophic. Ever a high-strung bird, he lost completely the repose wh=
ich
stamps the caste of Vere de Vere and the better order of parrot. His nerves
were shocked, and, as always under such conditions, his impulse was to bite
blindly. He bit, and Henry--one feels sorry for Henry: he was a well-meaning
man--leaped back with a loud howl.
"That'll be =
'arf
a pint," said Erb, always the business man.
There was a lull =
in
the rapid action. The dog, mumbling softly to himself, had moved away again=
and
was watching affairs from the edge of the sidewalk. Erb, having won, his po=
int,
was silent once more. Henry sucked his finger. Bill, having met the world
squarely and shown it what was what, stood where he was, whistling
nonchalantly.
Henry removed his
finger from his mouth. "Lend me the loan of that stick of yours,
Erb," he said tensely.
Erb silently yiel=
ded
up the stout stick which was his inseparable companion. Henry, a vastly
different man from the genial saunterer of a moment ago, poked wildly throu=
gh
the railings. Bill, panic-stricken now and wishing for nothing better than =
to
be back in his cosy cage, shrieked loudly for help. And Freddie Rooke, runn=
ing
the corner with Jill, stopped dead and turned pale.
"Good God!&q=
uot;
said Freddie.
2.
In pursuance of h=
is
overnight promise to Derek, Freddie Rooke had got in touch with Jill through
the medium of the telephone immediately after breakfast, and had arranged to
call at Ovington Square in the afternoon. Arrived there, he found Jill with=
a
telegram in her hand. Her Uncle Christopher, who had been enjoying a breath=
of
sea-air down at Brighton, was returning by an afternoon train, and Jill had=
suggested
that Freddie should accompany her to Victoria, pick up Uncle Chris, and esc=
ort
him home. Freddie, whose idea had been a tete-a-tete involving a brotherly
lecture on impetuosity, had demurred but had given way in the end; and they=
had
set out to walk to Victoria together. Their way had lain through Daubeny
Street, and they turned the corner just as the brutal onslaught on the inno=
cent
Henry had occurred. Bill's shrieks, which were of an appalling timbre, brou=
ght
them to a halt.
"What is
it?" cried Jill.
"It sounds l=
ike
a murder!"
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
"I don't kno=
w,
you know this is the sort of street chappies are murdering people in all the
time."
They caught sight=
of
the group in front of them, and were reassured. Nobody could possibly be
looking so aloof and distrait as Erb, if there were a murder going on.
"It's a
bird!"
"It's a jolly
old parrot. See it? Just inside the railings."
A red-hot wave of
rage swept over Jill. Whatever her defects,--and already this story has sho=
wn
her far from perfect,--she had the excellent quality of loving animals and
blazing into fury when she saw them ill-treated. At least three draymen were
going about London with burning ears as the result of what she had said to =
them
on discovering them abusing their patient horses. Zoologically, Bill the pa=
rrot
was not an animal, but he counted as one with Jill, and she sped down Daube=
ny
Street to his rescue,--Freddie, spatted and hatted and trousered as became =
the
man of fashion, following disconsolately, ruefully aware that he did not lo=
ok
his best sprinting like that. But Jill was cutting out a warm pace, and he =
held
his hat on with one neatly-gloved hand and did what he could to keep up.
Jill reached the
scene of battle, and, stopping, eyed Henry with a baleful glare. We, who ha=
ve
seen Henry in his calmer moments and know him for the good fellow he was, a=
re
aware that he was more sinned against than sinning. If there is any spirit =
of
justice in us, we are pro-Henry. In his encounter with Bill the parrot, Hen=
ry
undoubtedly had right on his side. His friendly overtures, made in the best=
spirit
of kindliness, had been repulsed. He had been severely bitten. And he had l=
ost
half a pint of beer to Erb. As impartial judges we have no other course bef=
ore
us than to wish Henry luck and bid him go to it. But Jill, who had not seen=
the
opening stages of the affair, thought far otherwise. She merely saw in Henr=
y a
great brute of a man poking at a defenceless bird with a stick.
She turned to
Freddie, who had come up at a gallop and was wondering why the deuce this s=
ort
of thing happened to him out of a city of six millions.
"Make him st=
op,
Freddie!"
"Oh, I say y=
ou
know, what!"
"Can't you s=
ee
he's hurting the poor thing? Make him leave off! Brute!" she added to
Henry (for whom one's heart bleeds), as he jabbed once again at his adversa=
ry.
Freddie stepped
reluctantly up to Henry, and tapped him on the shoulder. Freddie was one of
those men who have a rooted idea that a conversation of this sort can only =
be
begun by a tap on the shoulder.
"Look here, =
you
know, you can't do this sort of thing, you know!" said Freddie.
Henry raised a
scarlet face.
"'Oo are
you?" he demanded.
This attack from =
the
rear, coming on top of his other troubles, tried his restraint sorely.
"Well--"
Freddie hesitated. It seemed silly to offer the fellow one of his cards.
"Well, as a matter of fact, my name's Rooke . . ."
"And who,&qu=
ot;
pursued Henry, "arsked you to come shoving your ugly mug in 'ere?"=
;
"Well, if you
put it that way . . ."
"'E comes
messing abart," said Henry complainingly, addressing the universe,
"and interfering in what don't concern 'im and mucking around and
interfering and messing abart. . . . Why," he broke off in a sudden bu=
rst
of eloquence, "I could eat two of you for a relish wiv me tea, even if=
you
'ave got white spats!"
Here Erb, who had
contributed nothing to the conversation, remarked "Ah!" and
expectorated on the sidewalk. The point, one gathers, seemed to Erb well ta=
ken.
A neat thrust, was Erb's verdict.
"Just because
you've got white spats," proceeded Henry, on whose sensitive mind these
adjuncts of the costume of the well-dressed man about town seemed to have m=
ade
a deep and unfavorable impression, "you think you can come mucking aro=
und
and messing abart and interfering and mucking around. This bird's bit me in=
the
finger, and 'ere's the finger, if you don't believe me--and I'm going to tw=
ist 'is
ruddy neck, if all the perishers with white spats in London come messing ab=
art
and mucking around, so you I take them white spats of yours 'ome and give '=
em
to the old woman to cook for your Sunday dinner!"
And Henry, having
cleansed his stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the hea=
rt,
shoved the stick energetically once more through the railings.
Jill darted forwa=
rd.
Always a girl who believed that, if you want a thing well done, you must do=
it
yourself, she had applied to Freddie for assistance merely as a matter of f=
orm.
All the time she had felt that Freddie was a broken reed, and such he had
proved himself. Freddie's policy in this affair was obviously to rely on the
magic of speech, and any magic his speech might have had was manifestly off=
set by
the fact that he was wearing white spats and that Henry, apparently, belong=
ed
to some sort of league or society which had for its main object the
discouragement of white spats. It was plainly no good leaving the conduct of
the campaign to Freddie. Whatever was to be done must be done by herself. S=
he
seized the stick and wrenched it out of Henry's hand.
"Woof-woof-w=
oof!"
said Bill the parrot.
No dispassionate
auditor could have failed to detect the nasty ring of sarcasm. It stung Hen=
ry.
He was not normally a man who believed in violence to the gentler sex outsi=
de a
clump on the head of his missus when the occasion seemed to demand it: but =
now
he threw away the guiding principles of a lifetime and turned on Jill like a
tiger.
"Gimme that
stick!"
"Get back!&q=
uot;
"Here, I say,
you know!" said Freddie.
Henry, now thorou=
ghly
overwrought, made a rush at Jill: and Jill, who had a straight eye, hit him
accurately on the side of the head.
"Goo!" =
said
Henry, and sat down.
And then, from be=
hind
Jill, a voice spoke.
"What's all
this?"
A stout policeman=
had
manifested himself from empty space.
"This won't
do!" said the policeman.
Erb, who had been=
a
silent spectator of the fray, burst into speech. "She 'it 'im!"
The policeman loo=
ked
at Jill. He was an officer of many years' experience in the Force, and time=
had
dulled in him that respect for good clothes which he had brought with him f=
rom Little-Sudbury-in-the-Wold
in the days of his novitiate. Jill was well-dressed, but, in the stirring e=
poch
of the Suffrage disturbances, the policeman had been kicked on the shins and
even bitten by ladies of an equally elegant exterior. Hearts, the policeman
knew, just as pure and fair may beat in Belgrave Square as in the lowlier a=
ir
of Seven Dials, but you have to pinch them just the same when they disturb =
the
peace. His gaze, as it fell upon Jill, red-handed as it were with the stick
still in her grasp, was stern.
"Your name,
please, and address, miss?" he said.
A girl in blue wi=
th a
big hat had come up, and was standing staring open-mouthed at the group. At=
the
sight of her Bill the parrot uttered a shriek of welcome. Nelly Bryant had
returned, and everything would now be all right again.
"Mariner,&qu=
ot;
said Jill, pale and bright-eyed. "I live at Number Twenty-two, Ovington
Square."
"And yours,
sir?"
"Mine? Oh, a=
h,
yes. I see what you mean. Rooke, you know. F. L. Rooke. I live at the Albany
and all that sort of thing."
The policeman mad=
e an
entry in his note-book. "Officer," cried Jill, "this man was
trying to kill that parrot and I stopped him. . . ."
"Can't help
that, miss. You 'adn't no right to hit a man with a stick. You'll 'ave to c=
ome
along."
"But, I say,=
you
know!" Freddie was appalled. This sort of thing had happened to him
before, but only on Boat-Race Night at the Empire, where it was expected of=
a
chappie. "I mean to say!"
"And you too,
sir. You're both in it."
"But . . .&q=
uot;
"Oh, come al=
ong,
Freddie," said Jill quietly. "It's perfectly absurd, but it's no =
use
making a fuss."
"That,"
said the policeman cordially, "is the right spirit!".
3.
Lady Underhill pa=
used
for breath. She had been talking long and vehemently. She and Derek were
sitting in Freddie Rooke's apartment at the Albany, and the subject of her
monologue was Jill. Derek had been expecting the attack, and had wondered w=
hy
it had not come before. All through supper on the previous night, even after
the discovery that Jill was supping at a near-by table with a man who was a
stranger to her son, Lady Underhill had preserved a grim reticence with reg=
ard
to her future daughter-in-law. But today she had spoken her mind with all t=
he
energy which comes of suppression. She had relieved herself with a flow of
words of all the pent-up hostility that had been growing within her since t=
hat
first meeting in this same room. She had talked rapidly, for she was talking
against time. The Town Council of the principal city in Derek's constituenc=
y in
the north of England had decided that tomorrow morning should witness the l=
aying
of the foundation stone of their new Town Hall, and Derek as the sitting me=
mber
was to preside at the celebration. Already Parker had been dispatched to
telephone for a cab to take him to the station, and at any moment their
conversation might be interrupted. So Lady Underhill made the most of what
little time she had.
Derek had listened
gloomily, scarcely rousing himself to reply. His mother would have been
gratified, could she have known how powerfully her arguments were working on
him. That little imp of doubt which had vexed him in the cab as he drove ho=
me
from Ovington Square had not died in the night. It had grown and waxed more
formidable. And, now, aided by this ally from without, it had become a
colossus, straddling his soul. Derek looked frequently at the clock, and cu=
rsed
the unknown cabman whose delay was prolonging the scene. Something told him
that only flight could serve him now. He never had been able to withstand h=
is
mother in one of her militant moods. She seemed to numb his faculties. Other
members of his family had also noted this quality in Lady Underhill, and had
commented on it bitterly in the smoking-rooms of distant country-houses at =
the
hour when men meet to drink the final whisky-and-soda and unburden their so=
uls.
Lady Underhill,
having said all she had to say, recovered her breath and began to say it ag=
ain.
Frequent iteration was one of her strongest weapons. As her brother Edwin, =
who
was fond of homely imagery, had often observed, she could talk the hind-leg=
off
a donkey.
"You must be
mad, Derek, to dream of handicapping yourself at this vital stage of your
career with a wife who not only will not be a help to you, but must actuall=
y be
a ruinous handicap. I am not blaming you for imagining yourself in love in =
the
first place, though I really should have thought that a man of your strength
and character would . . . However, as I say, I am not blaming you for that.
Superficially, no doubt, this girl might be called attractive. I do not adm=
ire
the type myself, but I suppose she has that quality--in my time we should h=
ave
called it boldness--which seems to appeal to the young men of today. I could
imagine her fascinating a weak-minded imbecile like your friend Mr Rooke. B=
ut
that you . . . Still, there is no need to go into that. What I am trying to
point out is that in your position, with a career like yours in front of yo=
u,--it's
quite certain that in a year or two you will be offered some really big and
responsible position--you would be insane to tie yourself to a girl who see=
ms
to have been allowed to run perfectly wild, whose uncle is a swindler . .
."
"She can't be
blamed for her uncle."
". . . Who s=
ups
alone with strange men in public restaurants. . . ."
"I explained
that."
"You may have
explained it. You certainly did not excuse it or make it a whit less
outrageous. You cannot pretend that you really imagine that an engaged girl=
is
behaving with perfect correctness when she allows a man she has only just m=
et
to take her to supper at the Savoy, even if she did know him slightly years=
and
years ago. It is very idyllic to suppose that a childhood acquaintance excu=
ses
every breach of decorum, but I was brought up to believe otherwise. I don't=
wish
to be vulgar, but what it amounts to is that this girl was having
supper--supper! In my days girls were in bed at supper-time!--with a strange
man who picked her up at a theatre!"
Derek shifted
uneasily. There was a part of his mind which called upon him to rise up and
challenge the outrageous phrase and demand that it be taken back. But he
remained silent. The imp-colossus was too strong for him. She is quite righ=
t,
said the imp. That is an unpleasant but accurate description of what happen=
ed.
He looked at the clock again, and wished for the hundredth time that the cab
would come. Jill's photograph smiled at him from beside the clock. He looked
away, for, when he found his eyes upon it, he had an odd sensation of basen=
ess,
as if he were playing some one false who loved and trusted him.
"If you were=
an
ordinary man like hundreds of the idle young men one meets in London, I wou=
ld
have nothing to say. I dislike the girl intensely, but I would not interfer=
e in
what would be your own private business. No doubt there are plenty of sets =
in
society where it matters very little what sort of a woman a man marries. Bu=
t if
you have a career, especially in politics, you know as well as I do that a
suitable wife means everything. You are a public figure even now. In a few
years you will be a very big public figure. That means that your wife will =
have
every eye upon her. And what will she be? A minx!" said Lady Underhill
viciously.
Once more Derek
stirred uneasily, and once more he remained silent. A gleam came into Lady
Underhill's black eyes. All her life she had been a fighter, and experience=
had
taught her to perceive when she was winning. She blessed the dilatory cabma=
n.
"Well, I am =
not
going to say any more," she said, getting up and buttoning her glove.
"I will leave you to think it over. All I will say is that, though I o=
nly
met her yesterday, I can assure you that I am quite confident that this gir=
l is
just the sort of harum-scarum, so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day=
to
involve herself in a really serious scandal. I don't want her to be in a
position to drag you into it as well. Yes, Parker, what is it? Is Sir Derek=
's
cab here?"
The lantern-jawed
Parker had entered softly, and was standing deferentially in the doorway. T=
here
was no emotion on his face beyond the vague sadness which a sense of what w=
as
correct made him always wear like a sort of mask when in the presence of th=
ose
of superior station.
"The cab wil=
l be
at the door very shortly, m'lady. If you please, Sir Derek, a policeman has
come with a message."
"A
policeman?"
"With a mess=
age
from Mr Rooke."
"What do you
mean?"
"I have had a
few words of conversation with the constable, sir," said Parker sadly,
"and I understand from him that Mr Rooke and Miss Mariner have been
arrested."
"Arrested! W=
hat
are you talking about?"
"Mr Rooke
desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to step round and bail them
out!"
The gleam in Lady
Underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlled her voice.
"Why were Mi=
ss
Mariner and Mr Rooke arrested, Parker?"
"As far as I=
can
gather, m'lady, Miss Mariner struck a man in the street with a stick, and t=
hey
took both her and Rooke to the Chelsea Police Station."
Lady Underhill
glanced at Derek, who was looking into the fire.
"This is a
little awkward, Derek," she said suavely. "If you go to the
police-station, you will miss your train."
"I fancy,
m'lady, it would be sufficient if Sir Derek were to dispatch me with a check
for ten pounds."
"Very well. =
Tell
the policeman to wait a moment."
"Very good,
m'lady."
Derek roused hims=
elf
with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy. He sat down at the
writing-table, and took out his check-book. There was silence for a moment,
broken only by the scratching of the pen. Parker took the check and left the
room.
"Now,
perhaps," said Lady Underhill, "you will admit that I was right!&=
quot;
She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at just this moment
seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer. "You can't hesitate
now! You must free yourself from this detestable entanglement!"
Derek rose without
speaking. He took his coat and hat from where they lay on a chair.
"Derek! You
will! Say you will!"
Derek put on his
coat.
"Derek!"=
;
"For heaven's
sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think."
"Very well. I
will leave you to think it over, then." Lady Underhill moved to the do=
or.
At the door she paused for a moment, and seemed about to speak again, but h=
er
mouth closed resolutely. She was a shrewd woman, and knew that the art of l=
ife
is to know when to stop talking. What words have accomplished, too many wor=
ds
can undo.
"Good-bye.&q=
uot;
"Good-bye,
mother."
"I'll see you
when you get back?"
"Yes. No. I
don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may go away for a bit.&q=
uot;
The door closed
behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at the writing-table. He wrote a
few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it up. His eye travelled to the
mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiled happily down at him. He turned back to
the writing-table, took out a fresh piece of paper, thought for a few momen=
ts,
and began to write again.
The door opened
softly.
"The cab is =
at
the door, Sir Derek," said Parker.
Derek addressed an
envelope, and got up.
"All right.
Thanks. Oh, Parker, stop at a district-messenger office on your way to the
police-station, and have this sent off at once."
"Very good, =
Sir
Derek," said Parker.
Derek's eyes turn=
ed
once more to the mantelpiece. He stood looking for an instant, then walked
quickly out of the room.
1.
A taxi-cab stoppe=
d at
the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square. Freddie Rooke emerged, follo=
wed
by Jill. While Freddie paid the driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happ=
ily.
It had turned into a delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the
morning, had sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell w=
hich
had been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which intrude on t=
he
bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable intimation that
Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were wet underfoot, and the gutters ran
with thawed snow. The sun shone exhilaratingly from a sky the color of a
hedge-sparrow's egg.
"Doesn't
everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after our prison-l=
ife!"
"Topping!&qu=
ot;
"Fancy getti=
ng
out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must always make a point of having=
a
rich man with me. I shall never tease you about that fifty-pound note
again."
"Fifty-pound
note?"
"It certainly
came in handy today!"
She was opening t=
he
door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden sagging of Freddie's jaw, the
sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and the look of horror and anguish that
started into his eyes. Freddie was appalled. Finding himself at the
police-station penniless with the exception of a little loose change, he had
sent that message to Derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to
spending the night in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that th=
ere
was a risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to get =
Jill
into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If they remained where t=
hey
were overnight, the thing would get into the papers, and that would be a
thousand times worse. And if he applied for aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy
Martyn or anybody like that all London would know about it next day. So
Freddie, with misgivings, had sent the message to Derek, and now Jill's wor=
ds
had reminded him that there was no need to have done so. Years ago he had r=
ead
somewhere or heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around wi=
th a
sizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had seemed to h=
im
ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might find yourself short of cash=
and
faced by an immediate call for the ready. He had followed the chappie's
example. And now, when the crisis had arrived, he had forgotten--absolutely
forgotten!--that he had the dashed thing on his person at all.
He followed Jill =
into
the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful that she had taken it for grant=
ed
that he had secured their release in the manner indicated. He did not propo=
se
to disillusion her. It would be time enough to take the blame when the blame
came along. Probably old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whol=
e bally
affair like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at the thought.
Jill was talking =
to
the parlormaid whose head had popped up over the banisters flanking the sta=
irs
that led to the kitchen.
"Major Selby=
hasn't
arrived yet, miss."
"That's odd.=
I
suppose he must have taken a later train."
"There's a l=
ady
in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. She didn't give any name. She
said she would wait till the major came. She's been waiting a goodish
while."
"All right,
Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea."
They walked down =
the
hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor, a long, dim room that would
have looked like a converted studio but for the absence of bright light. A =
girl
was sitting at the far end by the fireplace. She rose: as they entered.
"How do you
do?" said Jill. "I'm afraid my uncle has not come back yet . .
."
"Say!"
cried the visitor. "You did get out quick!"
Jill was surprise=
d.
She had no recollection of ever having seen the other before. Her visitor w=
as a
rather pretty girl, with a sort of jaunty way of carrying herself which mad=
e a
piquant contrast to her tired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate
liking to her. She looked so forlorn and pathetic.
"My name's N=
elly
Bryant," said the girl. "That parrot belongs to me."
"Oh, I
see."
"I heard you=
say
to the cop that you lived here, so I came along to tell your folks what had
happened, so that they could do something. The maid said that your uncle was
expected any minute, so I waited."
"That was
awfully good of you."
"Dashed
good," said Freddie.
"Oh, no! Hon=
est,
I don't know how to thank you for what you did. You don't know what a pal B=
ill
is to me. It would have broken me all up if that plug-ugly had killed
him."
"But what a =
shame
you had to wait so long."
"I liked
it."
Nelly Bryant look=
ed
about the room wistfully. This was the sort of room she sometimes dreamed
about. She loved its subdued light and the pulpy cushions on the sofa.
"You'll have
some tea before you go, won't you?" said Jill, switching on the lights=
.
"It's very k=
ind
of you."
"Why,
hullo!" said Freddie. "By Jove! I say! We've met before, what?&qu=
ot;
"Why, so we
have!"
"That lunch =
at
Oddy's that young Threepwood gave, what?"
"I wonder you
remember."
"Oh, I remem=
ber.
Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show, 'Follow the Girl,' Jill=
, at
the Regal."
"Oh, yes. I
remember you took me to see it."
"Dashed odd
meeting again like this!" said Freddie. "Really rummy!"
Jane, the parlorm=
aid,
entering with tea, interrupted his comments.
"You're
American, then?" said Jill, interested. "The whole company came f=
rom
New York, didn't they?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"I'm half
American myself, you know. I used to live in New York when I was very small,
but I've almost forgotten what it was like. I remember a sort of over-head
railway that made an awful noise . . ."
"The
Elevated!" murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of homesickness seemed to c=
hoke
her for a moment.
"And the air.
Like champagne. And a very blue sky."
"Yes," =
said
Nelly in a small voice.
"I shouldn't
half mind popping over New York for a bit," said Freddie, unconscious =
of
the agony he was inflicting. "I've met some very sound sportsmen who c=
ame
from there. You don't know a fellow named Williamson, do you?"
"I don't bel=
ieve
I do."
"Or Oakes?&q=
uot;
"No."
"That's rumm=
y!
Oakes has lived in New York for years."
"So have abo=
ut
seven million other people," interposed Jill. "Don't be silly,
Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if you knew a man named
Jenkins in London?"
"I do know a=
man
named Jenkins in London," replied Freddie triumphantly.
Jill poured out a=
cup
of tea for her visitor, and looked at the clock.
"I wonder wh=
ere
Uncle Chris has got to," she said. "He ought to be here by now. I
hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wild stock-brokers down at
Brighton."
Freddie laid down=
his
cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.
"Oh, Freddie,
darling!" said Jill remorsefully. "I forgot! Stock-brokers are a
painful subject, aren't they!" She turned to Nelly. "There's been=
an
awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, and he got--what was the word,
Freddie?"
"Nipped!&quo=
t;
said Freddie with gloom.
"Nipped!&quo=
t;
"Nipped like=
the
dickens!"
"Nipped like=
the
dickens!" Jill smiled at Nelly. "He had forgotten all about it in=
the
excitement of being a jailbird, and I went and reminded him."
Freddie sought
sympathy from Nelly.
"A silly ass=
at
the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutter in some rotten thing
called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is, when you're feeling devilish f=
it
and cheery and all that after dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and sli=
ps
his little hand in yours and tells you to do some fool thing. You're so das=
hed
nappy you simply say 'Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!' That's the way I got=
had!"
Jill laughed
unfeelingly.
"It will do =
you
good, Freddie. It'll stir you up and prevent you being so silly again. Besi=
des,
you know you'll hardly notice it. You've much too much money as it is."=
;
"It's not the
money. It's the principle of the thing. I hate looking a frightful chump.&q=
uot;
"Well, you
needn't tell anybody. We'll keep it a secret. In fact, we'll start at once,=
for
I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let us dissemble. We are observed! . . . Hullo,
Uncle Chris!"
She ran down the
room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall, soldierly man who entered.
"Well, Jill,=
my
dear."
"How late you
are. I was expecting you hours ago."
"I had to ca=
ll
on my broker."
"Hush!
Hush!"
"What's the
matter?"
"Nothing,
nothing. . . . We've got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke, of course?"=
"How are you,
Freddie, my boy?"
"Cheerio!&qu=
ot;
said Freddie. "Pretty fit?"
"And Miss
Bryant," said Jill.
"How do you
do?" said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, in his younger d=
ays,
had charmed many a five-pound note out of the pockets of his fellow-men and
many a soft glance out of the eyes of their sisters, their cousins, and the=
ir
aunts.
"Come and ha=
ve
some tea," said Jill. "You're just in time."
Nelly had subsided
shyly into the depths of her big armchair. Somehow she felt a better and a =
more
important girl since Uncle Chris had addressed her. Most people felt like h=
at
after encountering Jill's Uncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It w=
as
not precisely condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He =
treated
you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the fact that=
it
was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chris affected the rank and
file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight of the Middle Ages would have
affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he had cast aside social distinctions =
for
awhile and hobnobbed with the latter in a tavern. He never patronized, but =
the
mere fact that he abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.
To this
impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was a fine, upstanding
man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in spite of an ominous thinn=
ing
of the hair which he tended and brushed so carefully. He had a firm chin, a
mouth that smiled often and pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustach=
e,
and very bright blue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze.
Though he had served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian=
's sun-scorched
sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. He looked as if he had j=
ust
stepped out of a cold tub,--a misleading impression, for Uncle Chris detest=
ed
cold water and always took his morning bath as hot as he could get it.
It was his clothe=
s,
however, which, even more than his appearance, fascinated the populace. The=
re
is only one tailor in London, as distinguished from the ambitious mechanics=
who
make coats and trousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly,
London is full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of f=
oot-wear,
but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of the word,--the one =
who
supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, while it is no doubt a fact that you
can get at plenty of London shops some sort of covering for your head which
will keep it warm, the only hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is =
the
man who enjoyed the patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head=
, in
short, from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris was perfect. He =
was
an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolis looked better for him. One
seems to picture London as a mother with a horde of untidy children, childr=
en
with made-up ties, children with wrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sig=
hing
to herself as she beheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch =
of
restored complacency, "Ah, well, I still have Uncle Chris!"
"Miss Bryant=
is
American, Uncle Chris," said Jill.
Uncle Chris spread
his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down kindly at Nelly.
"Indeed?&quo=
t;
He took a cup of tea and stirred it. "I was in America as a young
man."
"Whereabouts=
?"
asked Nelly eagerly.
"Oh, here and
there and everywhere. I travelled considerably."
"That's how =
it
is with me," said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence as she warmed to the
favorite topic. "I guess I know most every town in every State, from N=
ew
York to the last one-night stand. It's a great old country, isn't it?"=
"It is!"
said Uncle Chris. "I shall be returning there very shortly." He
paused meditatively. "Very shortly indeed."
Nelly bit her lip=
. It
seemed to be her fate today to meet people who were going to America.
"When did you
decide to do that?" asked Jill.
She had been look=
ing
at him, puzzled. Years of association with Uncle Chris had enabled her to r=
ead
his moods quickly, and she was sure that there was something on his mind. It
was not likely that the others had noticed it, for his manner was as genial=
and
urbane as ever. But something about him, a look in his eyes that came and w=
ent,
an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was not well.=
She
was a little troubled, but not greatly. Uncle Chris was not the sort of man=
to
whom grave tragedies happened. It was probably some mere trifle which she c=
ould
smooth out for him in five minutes, once they were alone together. She reac=
hed
out and patted his sleeve affectionately. She was fonder of Uncle Chris tha=
n of
anyone in the world except Derek.
"The
thought," said Uncle Chris, "came to me this morning, as I read my
morning paper while breakfasting. It has grown and developed during the day=
. At
this moment you might almost call it an obsession. I am very fond of Americ=
a. I
spent several happy years there. On that occasion, I set sail for the land =
of
promise, I admit, somewhat reluctantly. Of my own free will I might never h=
ave
made the expedition. But the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favor =
of my
doing so that I yielded to what I might call a public demand. The willing h=
ands
for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, and I did not resist th=
em.
I have never regretted it. America is a part of every young man's education.
You ought to go there, Freddie."
"Rummily
enough," said Freddie, "I was saying just before you came in that=
I
had half a mind to pop over. Only it's rather a bally fag, starting. Getting
your luggage packed and all that sort of thing."
Nelly, whose lugg=
age
consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silent sigh. Mingling with the idle =
rich
carried its penalties.
"America,&qu=
ot;
said Uncle Chris, "taught me poker, for which I can never be sufficien=
tly
grateful. Also an exotic pastime styled Craps,--or, alternatively, 'rolling=
the
bones'--which in those days was a very present help in time of trouble. At
Craps, I fear, my hand in late years had lost much of its cunning. I have h=
ad
little opportunity of practising. But as a young man I was no mean exponent=
of
the art. Let me see," said Uncle Chris meditatively. "What was the
precise ritual? Ah! I have it, 'Come, little seven!'"
"'Come,
eleven!'" exclaimed Nelly excitedly.
"'Baby . . .=
' I
feel convinced that in some manner the word baby entered into it."
"'Baby needs=
new
shoes!'"
"'Baby needs=
new
shoes!' Precisely!"
"It sounds to
me," said Freddie, "dashed silly."
"Oh, no!&quo=
t;
cried Nelly reproachfully.
"Well, what I
mean to say is, there's no sense in it, don't you know."
"It is a nob=
le
pursuit," said Uncle Chris firmly. "Worthy of the great nation th=
at
has produced it. No doubt, when I return to America, I shall have opportuni=
ties
of recovering my lost skill."
"You aren't
returning to America," said Jill. "You're going to stay safe at h=
ome
like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have you running wild all over t=
he
world at your age."
"Age?"
declaimed Uncle Chris. "What is my age? At the present moment I feel in
the neighborhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping me on the shoulder =
and
whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years are slipping away from me, my de=
ar
Jill,--slipping so quickly that in a few minutes you will be wondering why =
my
nurse does not come to fetch me. The wanderlust is upon me. I gaze around m=
e at
all this prosperity in which I am lapped," said Uncle Chris, eyeing th=
e arm-chair
severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me, and I feel
staggered. I want activity. I want to be braced!"
"You would h=
ate
it," said Jill composedly. "You know you're the laziest old darli=
ng
in the world."
"Exactly wha= t I am endeavoring to point out. I am lazy. Or, I was till this morning."<= o:p>
"Something v=
ery
extraordinary must have happened this morning. I can see that."
"I wallowed =
in
gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat and greasy citizen'!&quo=
t;
"Please, Unc=
le
Chris!" protested Jill. "Not while I'm eating buttered toast!&quo=
t;
"But now I am
myself again."
"That's
splendid."
"I have heard
the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted Uncle Chris, "and the th=
resh
of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--How long! how long! Pull out on
the trail again!"
"He can also
recite 'Gunga Din,'" said Jill to Nelly. "I really must apologize=
for
all this. He's usually as good as gold."
"I believe I
know how he feels," said Nelly softly.
"Of course y=
ou
do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of the world. We are not
vegetables like young Rooke here."
"Eh, what?&q=
uot;
said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had been watching Nelly's fac=
e.
Its wistfulness attracted him.
"We are only
happy," proceeded Uncle Chris, "when we are wandering."
"You should =
see
Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning," said Jill. "He
trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely defying
fatigue."
"That,"
said Uncle Chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. I shudder at the dep=
ths
to which prosperity has caused me to sink." He expanded his chest. &qu=
ot;I
shall be a different man in America. America would make a different man of =
you,
Freddie."
"I'm all rig=
ht,
thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man.
Uncle Chris turne=
d to
Nelly, pointing dramatically.
"Young woman=
, go
West! Return to your bracing home, and leave this enervating London! You . .
."
Nelly got up
abruptly. She could endure no more.
"I believe I=
'll
have to be going now," she said. "Bill misses me if I'm away long.
Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for what you did."
"It was awfu=
lly
kind of you to come round," said Jill.
"Good-bye, M=
ajor
Selby."
"Good-bye.&q=
uot;
"Good-bye, Mr
Rooke."
Freddie awoke from
another reverie.
"Eh? Oh, I s=
ay,
half a jiffy. I think I may as well be toddling along myself. About time I =
was
getting back to dress for dinner and all that. See you home, may I, and then
I'll get a taxi at Victoria. Toodle-oo, everybody."
=
* * *
Freddie escorted
Nelly through the hall and opened the front door for her. The night was cool
and cloudy, and there was still in the air that odd, rejuvenating suggestio=
n of
Spring. A wet fragrance came from the dripping trees.
"Topping eve=
ning!"
said Freddie conversationally.
"Yes."<= o:p>
They walked throu=
gh
the square in silence. Freddie shot an appreciative glance at his companion.
Freddie, as he would have admitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the
modern girl. The modern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exube=
rant
for a chappie of peaceful tastes. Now, this girl, on the other hand, had all
the earmarks of being something of a topper. She had a soft voice. Rummy ac=
cent
and all that, but nevertheless a soft and pleasing voice. She was mild and
unaggressive, and these were qualities which Freddie esteemed. Freddie, tho=
ugh
this was a thing he would not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort =
of
girls he had to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. They were =
too dashed
clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to score off a fellow.
This one was not like that. Not a bit. She was gentle and quiet and what no=
t.
It was at this po=
int
that it came home to him how remarkably quiet she was. She had not said a w=
ord
for the last five minutes. He was just about to break the silence, when, as
they passed under a street lamp, he perceived that she was crying,--crying =
very
softly to herself, like a child in the dark.
"Good God!&q=
uot;
said Freddie, appalled. There were two things in life with which he felt
totally unable to cope,--crying girls and dog-fights. The glimpse he had ca=
ught
of Nelly's face froze him into a speechlessness which lasted until they rea=
ched
Daubeny Street and stopped at her door.
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
said Nelly.
"Good-bye-ee=
!"
said Freddie mechanically. "That's to say, I mean to say, half a
second!" he added quickly. Ha faced her nervously, with one hand on the
grimy railings. This wanted looking into. When it came to girls trickling to
and fro in the public streets, weeping, well, it was pretty rotten and
something had to be done about it. "What's up?" he demanded.
"It's nothin=
g.
Good-bye."
"But, my dear
old soul," said Freddie, clutching the railing for moral support, &quo=
t;it
is something. It must be! You might not think it, to look at me, but I'm re=
ally
rather a dashed shrewd chap, and I can see there's something up. Why not gi=
ve
me the jolly old scenario and see if we can't do something?"
Nelly moved as if=
to
turn to the door, then stopped. She was thoroughly ashamed of herself.
"I'm a
fool!"
"No, no!&quo=
t;
"Yes, I am. I
don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you all talking like that a=
bout
going to America, just as if it was the easiest thing in the world, only you
couldn't be bothered to do it, kind of got me going. And to think I could be
there right now if I wasn't a bonehead!"
"A
bonehead?"
"A simp. I'm=
all
right as far up as the string of near-pearls, but above that I'm reinforced
concrete."
Freddie groped for
her meaning.
"Do you mean
you've made a bloomer of some kind?"
"I pulled the
worst kind of bone. I stopped on in London when the rest of the company went
back home, and now I've got to stick."
"Rush of jol=
ly
old professional engagement, what?"
Nelly laughed
bitterly.
"You're a bad
guesser. No, they haven't started to fight over me yet. I'm at liberty, as =
they
say in the Era."
"But, my dear
old thing," said Freddie earnestly, "if you've got nothing to keep
you in England, why not pop back to America? I mean to say, home-sickness is
the most dashed blighted thing in the world. There's nothing gives one the =
pip
to such an extent. Why, dash it, I remember staying with an old aunt of min=
e up
in Scotland the year before last and not being able to get away for three w=
eeks
or so, and I raved--absolutely gibbered--for a sight of the merry old metro=
p. Sometimes
I'd wake up in the night, thinking I was back at the Albany, and, by Jove, =
when
I found I wasn't I howled like a dog! You take my tip, old soul, and pop ba=
ck
on the next boat."
"Which line?=
"
"How do you
mean, which line? Oh, I see, you mean which line? Well . . . well . . . I've
never been on any of them, so it's rather hard to say. But I hear the Cunard
well spoken of, and then again some chappies swear by the White Star. But I
should imagine you can't go far wrong, whichever you pick. They're all pret=
ty
ripe, I fancy."
"Which of th=
em
is giving free trips? That's the point."
"Eh? Oh!&quo=
t;
Her meaning dawned upon Freddie. He regarded her with deep consternation. L=
ife
had treated him so kindly that he had almost forgotten that there existed a
class which had not as much money as himself. Sympathy welled up beneath his
perfectly fitting waistcoat. It was a purely disinterested sympathy. The fa=
ct
that Nelly was a girl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not aff=
ect
him. What mattered was that she was hard up. The thought hurt Freddie like a
blow. He hated the idea of anyone being hard up.
"I say!"=
; he
said. "Are you broke?"
Nelly laughed.
"Am I! If dollars were doughnuts, I wouldn't even have the hole in the middle."<= o:p>
Freddie was stirr=
ed
to his depths. Except for the beggars in the streets, to whom he gave
shillings, he had not met anyone for years who had not plenty of money. He =
had
friends at his clubs who frequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands=
on
a bally penny, but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on genera=
lly turned
out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car.
"Good God!&q=
uot;
he said.
There was a pause.
Then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble in his breast-pocket. Rummy=
how
things worked out for the best, however scaly they might seem at the moment.
Only an hour or so ago he had been kicking himself for not having remembered
that fifty-pound note, tacked onto the lining of his coat, when it would ha=
ve
come in handy at the police-station. He now saw that Providence had had the
matter well in hand. If he had remembered it and coughed it up to the const=
abulary
then, he wouldn't have had it now. And he needed it now. A mood of quixotic
generosity had surged upon him. With swift fingers he jerked the note free =
from
its moorings and displayed it like a conjurer exhibiting a rabbit.
"My dear old thing," he said, "I can't stand it! I absolutely cannot stick it = at any price! I really must insist on your trousering this. Positively!"<= o:p>
Nelly Bryant gaze=
d at
the note with wide eyes. She was stunned. She took it limply, and looked at=
it
under the dim light of the gas-lamp over the door.
"I
couldn't!" she cried.
"Oh, but rea=
lly!
You must!"
"But this is=
a
fifty-pound!"
"Absolutely!=
It
will take you back to New York, what? You asked which line was giving free
trips. The Freddie Rooke Line, by Jove, sailings every Wednesday and Saturd=
ay!
I mean, what!"
"But I can't
take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!"
"Oh, rather.=
Of
course you can."
There was another
pause.
"You'll
think--" Nelly's pale face flushed. "You'll think I told you all
about myself just--just because I wanted to . . ."
"To make a
touch? Absolutely not! Kid yourself of the jolly old superstition entirely.=
You
see before you, old thing, a chappie who knows more about borrowing money t=
han
any man in London. I mean to say, I've had my ear bitten more often than
anyone, I should think. There are sixty-four ways of making a touch--I've h=
ad
them all worked on me by divers blighters here and there--and I can tell an=
y of
them with my eyes shut. I know you weren't dreaming of any such thing."=
;
The note crackled
musically in Nelly's hand.
"I don't know
what to say!"
"That's all
right."
"I don't see=
why
. . . Gee! I wish I could tell you what I think of you!"
Freddie laughed
amusedly.
"Do you
know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters, you
know,--used to say to me at school."
"Are you sure
you can spare it?"
"Oh,
rather."
Nelly's eyes shon=
e in
the light of the lamp.
"I've never =
met
anyone like you before. I don't know how . . ."
Freddie shuffled
nervously. Being thanked always made him feel pretty rotten.
"Well, I thi=
nk
I'll be popping," he said. "Got to get back and dress and all tha=
t.
Awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort of rot."
Nelly unlocked the
door with her latchkey, and stood on the step.
"I'll buy a
fur-wrap," she said, half to herself.
"Great wheez=
e! I
should!"
"And some nu=
ts
for Bill!"
"Bill?"=
"The parrot.=
"
"Oh, the jol=
ly
old parrot! Rather! Well, cheerio!"
"Good-bye . =
. .
You've been awfully good to me."
"Oh, no,&quo=
t;
said Freddie uncomfortably. "Any time you're passing . . . !"
"Awfully goo=
d .
. . Well, good-bye."
"Toodle-oo!&=
quot;
"Maybe we'll
meet again some day."
"I hope so.
Absolutely!"
There was a little
scurry of feet. Something warm and soft pressed for an instant against
Freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back, Nelly Bryant skipped up the steps
and vanished through the door.
"Good God!&q=
uot;
Freddie felt his
cheek. He was aware of an odd mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration.
From the area bel=
ow a
slight cough sounded. Freddie turned sharply. A maid in a soiled cap, worn
coquettishly over one ear, was gazing intently up through the railings. The=
ir
eyes met. Freddie turned a warm pink. It seemed to him that the maid had the
air of one about to giggle.
"Damn!"
said Freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. He wondered whether he
had made a frightful ass of himself, spraying bank-notes all over the place
like that to comparative strangers. Then a vision came to him of Nelly's ey=
es
as they had looked at him in the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely
not. Rummy as the gadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. It
was a binge of which he thoroughly approved. A good egg!
2.
Jill, when Freddie
and Nelly left the room, had seated herself on a low stool, and sat, looking
thoughtfully into the fire. She was wondering if she had been mistaken in
supposing that Uncle Chris was worried about something. This restlessness of
his, this desire for movement, was strange in him. Hitherto he had been lik=
e a
dear old cosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced so =
eloquently.
She watched him as he took up his favorite stand in front of the fire.
"Nice
girl," said Uncle Chris. "Who was she?"
"Somebody
Freddie met," said Jill diplomatically. There was no need to worry Unc=
le
Chris with details of the afternoon's happenings.
"Very nice
girl." Uncle Chris took out his cigar-case. "No need to ask if I =
may,
thank goodness." He lit a cigar. "Do you remember, Jill, years ag=
o,
when you were quite small, how I used to blow smoke in your face?"
Jill smiled.
"Of course I=
do.
You said that you were training me for marriage. You said that there were no
happy marriages except where the wife didn't mind the smell of tobacco. Wel=
l,
it's lucky, as a matter of fact, for Derek smokes all the time."
Uncle Chris took =
up
his favorite stand against the fireplace.
"You're very
fond of Derek, aren't you, Jill?"
"Of course I=
am.
You are, too, aren't you?"
"Fine chap. =
Very
fine chap. Plenty of money, too. It's a great relief," said Uncle Chri=
s,
puffing vigorously. "A thundering relief." He looked over Jill's =
head
down the room. "It's fine to think of you happily married, dear, with
everything in the world that you want."
Uncle Chris' gaze
wandered down to where Jill sat. A slight mist affected his eyesight. Jill =
had
provided a solution for the great problem of his life. Marriage had always =
appalled
him, but there was this to be said for it, that married people had daughter=
s.
He had always wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be prou=
d of;
and fate had given him Jill at precisely the right age. A child would have
bored Uncle Chris--he was fond of children, but they made the deuce of a no=
ise
and regarded jam as an external ornament--but a delightful little girl of
fourteen was different. Jill and he had been very close to each other since=
her
mother had died, a year after the death of her father, and had left her in =
his
charge. He had watched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderm=
ent
in it--she seemed to grow so quickly--and had been fonder and prouder of he=
r at
every stage of her tumultuous career.
"You're a de=
ar,"
said Jill. She stroked the trouser-leg that was nearest. "How do you
manage to get such a wonderful crease? You really are a credit to me!"=
There was a momen=
tary
silence. A shade of embarrassment made itself noticeable in Uncle Chris' fr=
ank
gaze. He gave a little cough, and pulled at his mustache.
"I wish I we=
re,
my dear," he said soberly. "I wish I were. I'm afraid I'm a poor =
sort
of fellow, Jill."
Jill looked up.
"What do you
mean?"
"A poor sort=
of
fellow," repeated Uncle Chris. "Your mother was foolish to trust =
you
to me. Your father had more sense. He always said I was a wrong'un."
Jill got up quick=
ly.
She was certain now that she had been right, and that there was something on
her uncle's mind.
"What's the
matter, Uncle Chris? Something's happened. What is it?"
Uncle Chris turne=
d to
knock the ash off his cigar. The movement gave him time to collect himself =
for
what lay before him. He had one of those rare volatile natures which can ig=
nore
the blows of fate so long as their effects are not brought home by visible
evidence of disaster. He lived in the moment, and, though matters had been =
as
bad at breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when he confro=
nted
Jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them. He was a man who=
hated
ordeals, and one faced him now. Until this moment he had been able to detach
his mind from a state of affairs which would have weighed unceasingly upon
another man. His mind was a telephone which he could cut off at will, when =
the
voice of Trouble wished to speak. The time would arrive, he had been aware,
when he would have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refuse=
d to
listen. Now it could be evaded no longer.
"Jill."=
"Yes?"<= o:p>
Uncle Chris paused
again, searching for the best means of saying what had to be said.
"Jill, I don=
't
know if you understand about these things, but there was what is called a s=
lump
on the Stock Exchange this morning. In other words . . ."
Jill laughed.
"Of course I
know all about that," she said. "Poor Freddie wouldn't talk about
anything else till I made him. He was terribly blue when he got here this
afternoon. He said he had got 'nipped' in Amalgamated Dyes. He had lost abo=
ut
two hundred pounds, and was furious with a friend of his who had told him to
buy margins."
Uncle Chris clear=
ed
his throat.
"Jill, I'm
afraid I've got bad news for you. I bought Amalgamated Dyes, too." He
worried his mustache. "I lost heavily, very heavily."
"How naughty=
of
you! You know you oughtn't to gamble."
"Jill, you m=
ust
be brave. I--I--well, the fact is--it's no good beating about the bush--I l=
ost
everything! Everything!"
"Everything?=
"
"Everything!
It's all gone! All fooled away. It's a terrible business. This house will h=
ave
to go."
"But--but
doesn't the house belong to me?"
"I was your
trustee, dear." Uncle Chris smoked furiously. "Thank heaven you're
going to marry a rich man!"
Jill stood lookin=
g at
him, perplexed. Money, as money, had never entered into her life. There were
things one wanted, which had to be paid for with money, but Uncle Chris had
always looked after that. She had taken them for granted.
"I don't
understand," she said.
And then suddenly=
she
realized that she did, and a great wave of pity for Uncle Chris flooded over
her. He was such an old dear. It must be horrible for him to have to stand
there, telling her all this. She felt no sense of injury, only the discomfo=
rt
of having to witness the humiliation of her oldest friend. Uncle Chris was
bound up inextricably with everything in her life that was pleasant. She co=
uld remember
him, looking exactly the same, only with a thicker and wavier crop of hair,
playing with her patiently and unwearied for hours in the hot sun, a cheerf=
ul
martyr. She could remember sitting up with him when she came home from her
first grown-up dance, drinking cocoa and talking and talking and talking ti=
ll
the birds outside sang the sun high up into the sky and it was breakfast-ti=
me. She
could remember theatres with him, and jolly little suppers afterwards;
expeditions into the country, with lunches at queer old inns; days on the
river, days at Hurlingham, days at Lords', days at the Academy. He had alwa=
ys
been the same, always cheerful, always kind. He was Uncle Chris, and he wou=
ld
always be Uncle Chris, whatever he had done or whatever he might do. She
slipped her arm in his and gave it a squeeze.
"Poor old
thing!" she said.
Uncle Chris had b=
een
looking straight out before him with those fine blue eyes of his. There had
been just a touch of sternness in his attitude. A stranger, coming into the
room at that moment, would have said that here was a girl trying to coax her
blunt, straightforward, military father into some course of action of which=
his
honest nature disapproved. He might have been posing for a statue of Rectit=
ude.
As Jill spoke, he seemed to cave in.
"Poor old
thing?" he repeated limply.
"Of course y=
ou
are! And stop trying to look dignified and tragic! Because it doesn't suit =
you.
You're much too well dressed."
"But, my dea=
r,
you don't understand! You haven't realized!"
"Yes, I do. =
Yes,
I have!"
"I've spent =
all
your money--your money!"
"I know! What
does it matter?"
"What does it
matter! Jill, don't you hate me?"
"As if anyone
could hate an old darling like you!"
Uncle Chris threw
away his cigar, and put his arms round Jill. For a moment a dreadful fear c=
ame
to her that he was going to cry. She prayed that he wouldn't cry. It would =
be
too awful. It would be a memory of which she could never rid herself. She f=
elt
as though he were someone extraordinarily young and unable to look after
himself, someone she must soothe and protect.
"Jill,"
said Uncle Chris, choking, "you're--you're--you're a little warrior!&q=
uot;
Jill kissed him, =
and
moved away. She busied herself with some flowers, her back turned. The tens=
ion
had been relieved, and she wanted to give him time to recover his poise. She
knew him well enough to be sure that, sooner or later, the resiliency of his
nature would assert itself. He could never remain long in the depths.
The silence had t=
he
effect of making her think more clearly than in the first rush of pity she =
had
been able to do. She was able now to review the matter as it affected herse=
lf.
It had not been easy to grasp, the blunt fact that she was penniless, that =
all
this comfort which surrounded her was no longer her own. For an instant a k=
ind
of panic seized her. There was a bleakness about the situation which made o=
ne
gasp. It was like icy water dashed in the face. Realization had almost the
physical pain of life returning to a numbed limb. Her hands shook as she
arranged the flowers, and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from cryi=
ng
out.
She fought panic =
eye
to eye, and beat it down. Uncle Chris, swiftly recovering by the fireplace,
never knew that the fight had taken place. He was feeling quite jovial again
now that the unpleasant business of breaking the news was over, and was loo=
king
on the world with the eye of a debonair gentleman-adventurer. As far as he =
was concerned,
he told himself, this was the best thing that could have happened. He had b=
een
growing old and sluggish in prosperity. He needed a fillip. The wits by whi=
ch
he had once lived so merrily had been getting blunt in their easy retiremen=
t.
He welcomed the opportunity of matching them once more against the world. He
was remorseful as regarded Jill, but the optimist in him, never crushed for
long, told him that Jill would be all right. She would step from the sinking
ship to the safe refuge of Derek Underhill's wealth and position, while he =
went
out to seek a new life. Uncle Chris' blue eyes gleamed with a new fire as he
pictured himself in this new life. He felt like a hunter setting out on a
hunting expedition. There were always adventures and the spoils of war for =
the
man with brains to find them and gather them in. But it was a mercy that Ji=
ll
had Derek. . . .
Jill was thinking=
of
Derek, too. Panic had fled, and a curious exhilaration had seized upon her.=
If
Derek wanted her now, it would be because his love was the strongest thing =
in
the world. She would come to him like the beggar-maid to Cophetua.
Uncle Chris broke=
the
silence with a cough. At the sound of it, Jill smiled again. She knew it for
what it was, a sign that he was himself again.
"Tell me, Un=
cle
Chris," she said, "just how bad is it? When you said everything w=
as
gone, did you really mean everything, or were you being melodramatic? Exact=
ly
how do we stand?"
"It's dashed
hard to say, my dear. I expect we shall find there are a few hundreds left.
Enough to see you through till you get married. After that it won't
matter." Uncle Chris flicked a particle of dust off his coat-sleeve. J=
ill
could not help feeling that the action was symbolical of his attitude towar=
ds
life. He flicked away life's problems with just the same airy carelessness.
"You mustn't worry about me, my dear. I shall be all right. I have mad=
e my
way in the world before, and I can do it again. I shall go to America and t=
ry
my luck there. Amazing how many opportunities there are in America. Really,=
as
far as I am concerned, this is the best thing that could have happened. I h=
ave
been getting abominably lazy. If I had gone on living my present life for
another year or two, why, dash it! I honestly believe I should have succumb=
ed
to some sort of senile decay. Positively I should have got fatty degenerati=
on
of the brain! This will be the making of me."
Jill sat down on =
the
lounge and laughed till there were tears in her eyes. Uncle Chris might be
responsible for this disaster, but he was certainly making it endurable.
However greatly he might be deserving of censure, from the standpoint of the
sterner morality, he made amends. If he brought the whole world crashing in
chaos about one's ears, at least he helped one to smile among the ruins.
"Did you ever
read 'Candide', Uncle Chris?"
"'Candide'?&=
quot;
Uncle Chris shook his head. He was not a great reader, except of the sporti=
ng
press.
"It's a book=
by
Voltaire. There's a character in it called Doctor Pangloss, who thought that
everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds."
Uncle Chris felt a
touch of embarrassment. It occurred to him that he had been betrayed by his
mercurial temperament into an attitude which, considering the circumstances,
was perhaps a trifle too jubilant. He gave his mustache a pull, and reverte=
d to
the minor key.
"Oh, you mus=
tn't
think that I don't appreciate the terrible, the criminal thing I have done!=
I
blame myself," said Uncle Chris cordially, flicking another speck of d=
ust
off his sleeve. "I blame myself bitterly. Your mother ought never to h=
ave
made me your trustee, my dear. But she always believed in me, in spite of e=
verything,
and this is how I have repaid her." He blew his nose to cover a not
unmanly emotion. "I wasn't fitted for the position. Never become a
trustee, Jill. It's the devil, is trust money. However much you argue with
yourself, you can't--dash it, you simply can't believe that it's not your o=
wn,
to do as you like with. There it sits, smiling at you, crying 'Spend me! Sp=
end
me!' and you find yourself dipping--dipping--till one day there's nothing l=
eft
to dip for--only a far-off rustling--the ghosts of dead bank-notes. That's =
how
it was with me. The process was almost automatic. I hardly knew it was goin=
g on.
Here a little--there a little. It was like snow melting on a mountain-top. =
And
one morning--all gone!" Uncle Chris drove the point home with a gestur=
e.
"I did what I could. When I found that there were only a few hundreds
left, for your sake I took a chance. All heart and no head! There you have
Christopher Selby in a nutshell! A man at the club--a fool named--I've
forgotten his damn name--recommended Amalgamated Dyestuffs as a speculation.
Monroe, that was his name, Jimmy Monroe. He talked about the future of Brit=
ish
Dyes now that Germany was out of the race, and . . . well, the long and sho=
rt
of it was that I took his advice and bought on margin. Bought like the devi=
l.
And this morning Amalgamated Dyestuffs went all to blazes. There you have t=
he
whole story!"
"And now,&qu=
ot;
said Jill, "comes the sequel!"
"The
sequel?" said Uncle Chris breezily. "Happiness, my dear, happines=
s!
Wedding bells and--and all that sort of thing!" He straddled the
hearth-rug manfully, and swelled his chest out. He would permit no pessimis=
m on
this occasion of rejoicing. "You don't suppose that the fact of your
having lost your money--that is to say--er--of my having lost your money--w=
ill
affect a splendid young fellow like Derek Underhill? I know him better than=
to
think that! I've always liked him. He's a man you can trust! Besides,"=
he
added reflectively, "there's no need to tell him! Till after the weddi=
ng,
I mean. It won't be hard to keep up appearances here for a month or so.&quo=
t;
"Of course I
must tell him!"
"You think it
wise?"
"I don't know
about it being wise. It's the only thing to do. I must see him tonight. Oh,=
I
forgot. He was going away this afternoon for a day or two."
"Capital! It
will give you time to think it over."
"I don't wan=
t to
think it over. There's nothing to think about."
"Of course, =
yes,
of course. Quite so."
"I shall wri=
te
him a letter."
"Write,
eh?"
"It's easier=
to
put what one wants to say in a letter."
"Letters,&qu=
ot;
began Uncle Chris, and stopped as the door opened. Jane the parlormaid ente=
red,
carrying a salver. "For me?" asked Uncle Chris.
"For Miss Ji=
ll,
sir."
Jill took the note
off the salver.
"It's from
Derek."
"There's a
messenger-boy waiting, miss," said Jane. "He wasn't told if there=
was
an answer."
"If the note=
is
from Derek," said Uncle Chris, "it's not likely to want an answer.
You said he left town today."
Jill opened the
envelope.
"Is there an
answer, miss?" asked Jane, after what she considered a suitable interv=
al.
She spoke tenderly. She was a great admirer of Derek, and considered it a
pretty action on his part to send notes like this when he was compelled to
leave London.
"Any answer,=
Jill?"
Jill seemed to ro=
use
herself. She had turned oddly pale.
"No, no answ=
er,
Jane."
"Thank you,
miss," said Jane, and went off to tell cook that in her opinion Jill w=
as
lacking in heart. "It might have been a bill instead of a
love-letter," said Jane to the cook with indignation, "the way she
read it. I like people to have a little feeling!"
Jill sat turning =
the
letter over and over in her fingers. Her face was very white. There seemed =
to
be a big, heavy, leaden something inside her. A cold hand clutched her thro=
at.
Uncle Chris, who at first had noticed nothing untoward, now began to find t=
he
silence sinister.
"No bad news=
, I
hope, dear?"
Jill turned the
letter between her fingers.
"Jill, is it=
bad
news?"
"Derek has
broken off the engagement," said Jill in a dull voice. She let the note
fall to the floor, and sat with her chin in her hands.
"What!"
Uncle Chris leaped from the hearth-rug, as though the fire had suddenly
scorched him. "What did you say?"
"He's broken=
it
off."
"The
hound!" cried Uncle Chris. "The blackguard! The--the--I never lik=
ed
that man! I never trusted him!" He fumed for a moment. "But--but-=
-it
isn't possible. How can he have heard about what's happened? He couldn't kn=
ow.
It's--it's--it isn't possible!"
"He doesn't
know. It has nothing to do with that."
"But . . .&q=
uot;
Uncle Chris stooped to where the note lay. "May I . . . ?"
"Yes, you can
read it if you like."
Uncle Chris produ=
ced
a pair of reading-glasses, and glared through them at the sheet of paper as
though it were some loathsome insect.
"The hound! =
The
cad! If I were a younger man," shouted Uncle Chris, smiting the letter
violently, "if I were . . . Jill! My dear little Jill!"
He plunged down on
his knees beside her, as she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.=
"My little g=
irl!
Damn that man! My dear little girl! The cad! The devil! My own darling litt=
le
girl! I'll thrash him within an inch of his life!"
The clock on the
mantelpiece ticked away the minutes. Jill got up. Her face was wet and
quivering, but her mouth had set in a brave line.
"Jill,
dear!"
She let his hand
close over hers.
"Everything's
happening all at once this afternoon, Uncle Chris, isn't it!" She smil=
ed a
twisted smile. "You look so funny! Your hair's all rumpled, and your
glasses are over on one side!"
Uncle Chris breat=
hed
heavily through his nose.
"When I meet
that man . . ." he began portentously.
"Oh, what's =
the
good of bothering! It's not worth it! Nothing's worth it!" Jill stoppe=
d,
and faced him, her hands clenched. "Let's get away! Let's get right aw=
ay!
I want to get right away, Uncle Chris! Take me away! Anywhere! Take me to
America with you! I must get away!"
Uncle Chris raised
his right hand, and shook it. His reading-glasses, hanging from his left ea=
r,
bobbed drunkenly.
"We'll sail =
by
the next boat! The very next boat, dammit! I'll take care of you, dear. I've
been a blackguard to you, my little girl. I've robbed you, and swindled you.
But I'll make up for it, by George! I'll make up for it! I'll give you a new
home, as good as this, if I die for it. There's nothing I won't do! Nothing=
! By
Jove!" shouted Uncle Chris, raising his voice in a red-hot frenzy of e=
motion,
"I'll work! Yes, by Gad, if it comes right down to it, I'll work!"=
;
He brought his fi=
st
down with a crash on the table where Derek's flowers stood in their bowl. T=
he
bowl leaped in the air and tumbled over, scattering the flowers on the floo=
r.
1.
In the lives of e=
ach
one of us, as we look back and review them in retrospect, there are certain
desert wastes from which memory winces like some tired traveller faced with=
a
dreary stretch of road. Even from the security of later happiness we cannot
contemplate them without a shudder. Time robs our sorrows of their sharp
vividness, but the horror of those blank, gray days never wholly passes. It=
remains
for ever at the back of our consciousness to remind us that, though we may =
have
struggled through it to the heights, there is an abyss. We may dwell, like =
the
Pilgrim, on the Delectable Mountains, but we never forget the Slough of
Despond. Years afterwards, Jill could not bring herself to think of that br=
ief
but age-long period which lay between the evening when she read Derek's let=
ter
and the morning when, with the wet sea-wind in her face and the cry of the =
wheeling
sea-gulls in her ears, she stood on the deck of the liner that was taking h=
er
to the land where she could begin a new life. It brooded behind her like a
great, dank cloud, shutting out the sunshine.
The conditions of
modern life are singularly inimical to swift and dramatic action when we wi=
sh
to escape from surroundings that have become intolerable. In the old days, =
your
hero would leap on his charger and ride out into the sunset. Now, he is
compelled to remain for a week or so to settle his affairs,--especially if =
he
is an Uncle Chris--and has got those affairs into such a tangle that harden=
ed lawyers
knit their brows at the sight of them. It took one of the most competent fi=
rms
in the metropolis four days to produce some sort of order in the confusion
resulting from Major Selby's financial operations; and during those days Ji=
ll
existed in a state of being which could be defined as living only in that s=
he
breathed and ate and comported herself outwardly like a girl and not a ghos=
t.
Boards announcing
that the house was for sale appeared against the railings through which Jane
the parlormaid conducted her daily conversations with the tradesmen. Strang=
ers
roamed the rooms eyeing and appraising the furniture. Uncle Chris, on whom
disaster had had a quickening and vivifying effect, was everywhere at once,=
an impressive
figure of energy. One may be wronging Uncle Chris, but to the eye of the ca=
sual
observer he seemed in these days of trial to be having the time of his life=
.
Jill varied the
monotony of sitting in her room--which was the only place in the house where
one might be sure of not encountering a furniture-broker's man with a note-=
book
and pencil--by taking long walks. She avoided as far as possible the small =
area
which had once made up the whole of London for her, but even so she was not
always successful in escaping from old acquaintances. Once, cutting through=
Lennox
Gardens on her way to that vast, desolate King's Road which stretches its
length out into regions unknown to those whose London is the West End, she
happened upon Freddie Rooke, who had been paying a call in his best hat and=
a
pair of white spats which would have cut his friend Henry to the quick. It =
was
not an enjoyable meeting. Freddie, keenly alive to the awkwardness of the
situation, was scarlet and incoherent; and Jill, who desired nothing less t=
han
to talk with one so intimately connected in her mind with all that she had
lost, was scarcely more collected. They parted without regret. The only
satisfaction that came to Jill from the encounter was the knowledge that De=
rek
was still out of town. He had wired for his things, said Freddie and had
retreated further north. Freddie, it seemed, had been informed of the broken
engagement by Lady Underhill in an interview which appeared to have left a
lasting impression on his mind. Of Jill's monetary difficulties he had heard
nothing.
After this meetin=
g,
Jill felt a slight diminution of the oppression which weighed upon her. She
could not have borne to have come unexpectedly upon Derek, and, now that th=
ere
was no danger of that, she found life a little easier. The days passed some=
how,
and finally there came the morning when, accompanied by Uncle Chris--voluble
and explanatory about the details of what he called "getting everythin=
g settled"--she
rode in a taxi to take the train for Southampton. Her last impression of Lo=
ndon
was of rows upon rows of mean houses, of cats wandering in back-yards among
groves of home-washed underclothing, and a smoky grayness which gave way, as
the train raced on, to the clearer gray of the suburbs and the good green a=
nd brown
of the open country.
Then the bustle a=
nd
confusion of the liner; the calm monotony of the journey, when one came on =
deck
each morning to find the vessel so manifestly in the same spot where it had
been the morning before that it was impossible to realize how many hundred
miles of ocean had really been placed behind one; and finally the Ambrose
Channel lightship and the great bulk of New York rising into the sky like a=
city
of fairyland, heartening yet sinister, at once a welcome and a menace.
"There you a=
re,
my dear!" said Uncle Chris indulgently, as though it were a toy he had
made for her with his own hands. "New York!"
They were standin=
g on
the boat-deck, leaning over the rail. Jill caught her breath. For the first
time since disaster had come upon her she was conscious of a rising of her
spirits. It is impossible to behold the huge buildings which fringe the har=
bor
of New York without a sense of expectancy and excitement. There had remaine=
d in
Jill's mind from childhood memories a vague picture of what she now saw, bu=
t it
had been feeble and inadequate. The sight of this towering city seemed some=
how
to blot out everything that had gone before. The feeling of starting afresh=
was
strong upon her.
Uncle Chris, the =
old
traveller, was not emotionally affected. He smoked placidly and talked in a
wholly earthy strain of grape-fruit and buckwheat cakes.
It was now, also =
for
the first time, that Uncle Chris touched upon future prospects in a practic=
al
manner. On the voyage he had been eloquent but sketchy. With the land of
promise within biscuit-throw and the tugs bustling about the great liner's
skirts like little dogs about their mistress, he descended to details.
"I shall get=
a
room somewhere," said Uncle Chris, "and start looking about me. I
wonder if the old Holland House is still there. I fancy I heard they'd pull=
ed
it down. Capital place. I had a steak there in the year . . . But I expect
they've pulled it down. But I shall find somewhere to go. I'll write and te=
ll
you my address directly I've got one."
Jill removed her =
gaze
from the sky-line with a start.
"Write to
me?"
"Didn't I te=
ll
you about that?" said Uncle Chris cheerily,--avoiding her eye, however,
for he had realized all along that it might be a little bit awkward breaking
the news. "I've arranged that you shall go and stay for the time being
down at Brookport--on Long Island, you know--over in that direction--with y=
our
Uncle Elmer. Daresay you've forgotten you have an Uncle Elmer, eh?" he
went on quickly, as Jill was about to speak. "Your father's brother. U=
sed
to be in business, but retired some years ago and goes in for amateur farmi=
ng.
Corn and--and corn," said Uncle Chris. "All that sort of thing.
You'll like him. Capital chap! Never met him myself, but always heard,"
said Uncle Chris, who had never to his recollection heard any comments upon=
Mr
Elmer Mariner whatever, "that he was a splendid fellow. Directly we
decided to sail, I cabled to him, and got an answer saying that he would be
delighted to put you up. You'll be quite happy there."
Jill listened to =
this
programme with dismay. New York was calling to her, and Brookport held out =
no
attractions at all. She looked down over the side at the tugs puffing their=
way
through the broken blocks of ice that reminded her of a cocoanut candy fami=
liar
to her childhood.
"But I want =
to
be with you," she protested.
"Impossible,=
my
dear, for the present. I shall be very busy, very busy indeed for some week=
s,
until I have found my feet. Really, you would be in the way. He--er--travels
the fastest who travels alone! I must be in a position to go anywhere and do
anything at a moment's notice. But always remember, my dear," said Unc=
le
Chris, patting her shoulder affectionately, "that I shall be working f=
or
you. I have treated you very badly, but I intend to make up for it. I shall=
not
forget that whatever money I may make will really belong to you." He l=
ooked
at her benignly, like a monarch of finance who has ear-marked a million or =
two
for the benefit of a deserving charity. "You shall have it all,
Jill."
He had so much the
air of having conferred a substantial benefit upon her that Jill felt oblig=
ed
to thank him. Uncle Chris had always been able to make people grateful for =
the
phantom gold which he showered upon them. He was as lavish a man with the m=
oney
he was going to get next week as ever borrowed a five-pound note to see him
through till Saturday.
"What are you
going to do, Uncle Chris?" asked Jill curiously. Apart from a nebulous
idea that he intended to saunter through the city picking dollar-bills off =
the
sidewalk, she had no inkling of his plans.
Uncle Chris toyed
with his short mustache. He was not quite equal to a direct answer on the s=
pur
of the moment. He had a faith in his star. Something would turn up. Somethi=
ng
always had turned up in the old days, and doubtless, with the march of
civilization, opportunities had multiplied. Somewhere behind those tall
buildings the Goddess of Luck awaited him, her hands full of gifts, but pre=
cisely
what those gifts would be he was not in a position to say.
"I
shall--ah--how shall I put it--?"
"Look
round?" suggested Jill.
"Precisely,&=
quot;
said Uncle Chris gratefully. "Look round. I daresay you have noticed t=
hat
I have gone out of my way during the voyage to make myself agreeable to our
fellow-travellers? I had an object. Acquaintances begun on shipboard will o=
ften
ripen into useful friendships ashore. When I was a young man I never neglec=
ted
the opportunities which an ocean voyage affords. The offer of a book here, a
steamer-rug there, a word of encouragement to a chatty bore in the
smoke-room--these are small things, but they may lead to much. One meets
influential people on a liner. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but th=
at
man with the eye-glasses and the thin nose I was talking to just now is one=
of
the richest men in Milwaukee!"
"But it's not much good having rich friends in Milwaukee when you are in New York!"<= o:p>
"Exactly. Th=
ere
you have put your finger on the very point I have been trying to make. It w=
ill
probably be necessary for me to travel. And for that I must be alone. I mus=
t be
a mobile force. I should dearly like to keep you with me, but you can see f=
or
yourself that for the moment you would be an encumbrance. Later on, no doub=
t, when
my affairs are more settled . . ."
"Oh, I
understand. I'm resigned. But, oh dear! it's going to be very dull down at
Brookport."
"Nonsense,
nonsense! It's a delightful spot."
"Have you be=
en
there?"
"No! But of
course everybody knows Brookport! Healthy, invigorating . . . Sure to be! T=
he
very name . . . You'll be as happy as the days are long!"
"And how long
the days will be!"
"Come, come!=
You
mustn't look on the dark side!"
"Is there
another?" Jill laughed. "You are an old hum-bug, Uncle Chris. You
know perfectly well what you're condemning me to! I expect Brookport will be
like a sort of Southend in winter. Oh, well, I'll be brave. But do hurry and
make a fortune, because I want to come to New York."
"My dear,&qu=
ot;
said Uncle Chris solemnly, "if there is a dollar lying loose in this c=
ity,
rest assured that I shall have it! And, if it's not loose, I will detach it
with the greatest possible speed. You have only known me in my decadence, an
idle and unprofitable London clubman. I can assure you that, lurking beneath
the surface, there is a business acumen given to few men . . ."
"Oh, if you =
are
going to talk poetry," said Jill, "I'll leave you. Anyhow, I ough=
t to
be getting below and putting my things together. Subject for a historical
picture,--The Belle of Brookport collecting a few simple necessaries before
entering upon the conquest of America."
2.
If Jill's vision =
of
Brookport as a wintery Southend was not entirely fulfilled, neither was Unc=
le
Chris' picture of it as an earthly paradise. At the right time of the year,
like most of the summer resorts on the south shore of Long Island, it is not
without its attractions; but January is not the month which most people wou=
ld choose
for living in it. It presented itself to Jill on first acquaintance in the
aspect of a wind-swept railroad station, dumped down far away from human
habitation in the middle of a stretch of flat and ragged country that remin=
ded
her a little of parts of Surrey. The station was just a shed on a foundatio=
n of
planks which lay flush with the rails. From this shed, as the train clanked=
in,
there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. He had a
clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at Jill with small ey=
es.
Something in his expression reminded Jill of her father, as a bad caricatur=
e of
a public man will recall the original, she introduced herself.
"If you're U=
ncle
Elmer," she said, "I'm Jill."
The man held out a
long hand. He did not smile. He was as bleak as the east wind that swept the
platform.
"Glad to meet
you again," he said in a melancholy voice. It was news to Jill that th=
ey
had met before. She wondered where. Her uncle supplied the information.
"Last time I saw you, you were a kiddy in short frocks, running around=
and
shouting to beat the band." He looked up and down the platform. "I
never heard a child make so much noise!"
"I'm quite q=
uiet
now," said Jill encouragingly. The recollection of her infant revelry
seemed to her to be distressing her relative.
It appeared, howe=
ver,
that it was not only this that was on his mind.
"If you want=
to
drive home," he said, "we'll have to phone to the Durham House fo=
r a
hack." He brooded awhile, Jill remaining silent at his side, loath to
break in upon whatever secret sorrow he was wrestling with. "That woul=
d be
a dollar," he went on. "They're robbers in these parts! A dollar!=
And
it's not over a mile and a half. Are you fond of walking?"
Jill was a bright
girl, and could take a hint.
"I love
walking," she said. She might have added that she preferred to do it o=
n a
day when the wind was not blowing quite so keenly from the East, but her
uncle's obvious excitement at the prospect of cheating the rapacity of the
sharks at the Durham House restrained her. Her independent soul had not qui=
te
adjusted itself to the prospect of living on the bounty of her fellows,
relatives though they were, and she was desirous of imposing as light a bur=
den
upon them as possible. "But how about my trunk?"
"The express=
man
will bring that up. Fifty cents!" said Uncle Elmer in a crushed way. T=
he
high cost of entertaining seemed to be afflicting this man deeply.
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
said Jill. She could not see how this particular expenditure was to be avoi=
ded.
Anxious as she was to make herself pleasant, she declined to consider carry=
ing
the trunk to their destination. "Shall we start, then?"
Mr Mariner led the
way out into the ice-covered road. The wind welcomed them like a boisterous
dog. For some minutes they proceeded in silence.
"Your aunt w=
ill
be glad to see you," said Mr Mariner at last in the voice with which o=
ne
announces the death of a dear friend.
"It's awfully
kind of you to have me to stay with you," said Jill. It is a human
tendency to think, when crises occur, in terms of melodrama, and unconsciou=
sly
she had begun to regard herself somewhat in the light of a heroine driven o=
ut
into the world from the old home, with no roof to shelter her head. The
promptitude with which these good people, who, though relatives, were after=
all
complete strangers, had offered her a resting-place touched her. "I ho=
pe I
shan't be in the way."
"Major Selby=
was
speaking to me on the telephone just now," said Mr Mariner, "and =
he
said that you might be thinking of settling down in Brookport. I've some ni=
ce
little places round here which you might like to look at. Rent or buy. It's
cheaper to buy. Brookport's a growing place. It's getting known as a summer
resort. There's a bungalow down on the shore I'd like to show you tomorrow.
Stands in a nice large plot of ground, and if you bought it for twelve thou=
sand
you'd be getting a bargain."
Jill was too
astonished to speak. Plainly Uncle Chris had made no mention of the change =
in
her fortunes, and this man looked on her as a girl of wealth. She could only
think how typical this was of Uncle Chris. There was a sort of boyish
impishness about him. She could see him at the telephone, suave and importa=
nt.
He would have hung up the receiver with a complacent smirk, thoroughly
satisfied that he had done her an excellent turn.
"I put all my
money into real estate when I came to live here," went on Mr Mariner.
"I believe in the place. It's growing all the time."
They had come to =
the
outskirts of a straggling village. The lights in the windows gave a welcome
suggestion of warmth, for darkness had fallen swiftly during their walk and=
the
chill of the wind had become more biting. There was a smell of salt in the =
air
now, and once or twice Jill had caught the low booming of waves on some dis=
tant
beach. This was the Atlantic pounding the sandy shore of Fire Island. Brook=
port
itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the Great South Bay.
"This is
Brookport," said Mr Mariner. "That's Haydock's grocery store ther=
e by
the post-office. He charges sixty cents a pound for bacon, and I can get the
same bacon by walking into Patchogue for fifty-seven!" He brooded awhi=
le
on the greed of man, as exemplified by the pirates of Brookport. "The =
very
same bacon!" he said.
"How far is
Patchogue?" asked Jill, feeling that some comment was required of her.=
"Four
miles," said Mr Mariner.
They passed throu=
gh
the village, bearing to the right, and found themselves in a road bordered =
by
large gardens in which stood big, dark houses. The spectacle of these
stimulated Mr Mariner to something approaching eloquence. He quoted the pri=
ce
paid for each, the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been =
paid
five years ago. The recital carried them on for another mile, in the course=
of
which the houses became smaller and more scattered, and finally, when the
country had become bare and desolate again, they turned down a narrow lane =
and
came to a tall, gaunt house standing by itself in a field.
"This is
Sandringham," said Mr Mariner.
"What!"
said Jill. "What did you say?"
"Sandringham.
Where we live. I got the name from your father. I remember him telling me t=
here
was a place called that in England."
"There is.&q=
uot;
Jill's voice bubbled. "The King lives there."
"Is that
so?" said Mr Mariner. "Well, I bet he doesn't have the trouble wi=
th
help that we have here. I have to pay our girl fifty dollars a month, and
another twenty for the man who looks after the furnace and chops wood. They=
're
all robbers. And if you kick they quit on you!"
3.
Jill endured
Sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on that period of her life late=
r,
she wondered how she did it. The sense of desolation which had gripped her =
on
the station platform increased rather than diminished as she grew accustome=
d to
her surroundings. The east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a
suggestion of warmth, but her uncle's bleakness appeared to be a static
quality, independent of weather conditions. Her aunt, a faded woman with a =
perpetual
cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. The rest of the
household consisted of a gloomy child, "Tibby," aged eight; a
spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittent cat, who, when he =
did
put in an appearance, was the life and soul of the party, but whose visits =
to
his home were all too infrequent for Jill. Thomas was a genial animal, whose
color-scheme, like a Whistler picture, was an arrangement in black and whit=
e.
He had green eyes and a purr like a racing automobile. But his social
engagements in the neighborhood kept him away much of the time. He was the
popular and energetic secretary of the local cats' debating society. One co=
uld hear
him at night sometimes reading the minutes in a loud, clear voice; after wh=
ich
the debate was considered formally open.
Each day was the =
same
as the last, almost to the final detail. Sometimes Tibby would be naughty at
breakfast, sometimes at lunch; while Rover, the spaniel, a great devotee of=
the
garbage-can, would occasionally be sick at mid-day instead of after the eve=
ning
meal. But, with these exceptions, there was a uniformity about the course of
life in the Mariner household which began to prey on Jill's nerves as early=
as
the third day.
The picture which=
Mr
Mariner had formed in his mind of Jill as a wealthy young lady with a taste=
for
house property continued as vivid as ever. It was his practice each morning=
to
conduct her about the neighborhood, introducing her to the various houses in
which he had sunk most of the money which he had made in business. Mr Marin=
er's
life centered around Brookport real estate, and the embarrassed Jill was
compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and master's bedro=
oms
till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her a feeling of nervous
exhaustion. Most of her uncle's houses were converted farmhouses and, as one
unfortunate purchaser had remarked, not so darned converted at that. The da=
ys
she spent at Brookport remained in Jill's memory as a smell of dampness and
chill and closeness.
"You want to
buy," said Mr Mariner every time he shut a front-door behind them.
"Not rent. Buy. Then, if you don't want to live here, you can always r=
ent
in the summer."
It seemed incredi=
ble
to Jill that the summer would ever come. Winter held Brookport in its grip.=
For
the first time in her life she was tasting real loneliness. She wandered ov=
er
the snow-patched fields down to the frozen bay, and found the intense
stillness, punctuated only by the occasional distant gunshot of some optimi=
st
trying for duck, oppressive rather than restful. She looked on the weird be=
auty
of the ice-bound marshes which glittered red and green and blue in the sun =
with
unseeing eyes; for her isolation was giving her time to think, and thought =
was
a torment.
On the eighth day
came a letter from Uncle Chris,--a cheerful, even rollicking letter. Things
were going well with Uncle Chris, it seemed. As was his habit, he did not e=
nter
into details, but he wrote in a spacious way of large things to be, of affa=
irs
that were coming out right, of prosperity in sight. As tangible evidence of
success, he enclosed a present of twenty dollars, for Jill to spend in the =
Brookport
shops.
The letter arrive=
d by
the morning mail, and two hours later Mr Mariner took Jill by one of his us=
ual
overland routes to see a house nearer the village than most of those which =
she
had viewed. Mr Mariner had exhausted the supply of cottages belonging to
himself, and this one was the property of an acquaintance. There would be a=
n agent's
fee for him in the deal, if it went through, and Mr Mariner was not a man w=
ho
despised money in small quantities.
There was a touch=
of
hopefulness in his gloom this morning, like the first intimation of sunshine
after a wet day. He had been thinking the thing over, and had come to the
conclusion that Jill's unresponsiveness when confronted with the houses she=
had
already seen was due to the fact that she had loftier ideas than he had
supposed. Something a little more magnificent than the twelve thousand doll=
ar places
he had shown her was what she desired. This house stood on a hill looking d=
own
on the bay, in several acres of ground. It had its private landing-stage and
bath-house, its dairy, its sleeping-porches,--everything, in fact, that a
sensible girl could want. Mr Mariner could not bring himself to suppose tha=
t he
would fail again today.
"They're ask=
ing
a hundred and five thousand," he said, "but I know they'd take a
hundred thousand. And, if it was a question of cash down, they would go even
lower. It's a fine house. You could entertain there. Mrs Bruggenheim rented=
it
last summer, and wanted to buy, but she wouldn't go above ninety thousand. =
If
you want it, you'd better make up your mind quick. A place like this is apt=
to
be snapped up in a hurry."
Jill could endure=
it
no longer.
"But, you
see," she said gently, "all I have in the world is twenty dollars=
!"
There was a painf=
ul
pause. Mr Mariner shot a swift glance at her in the hope of discovering that
she had spoken humorously, but was compelled to decide that she had not. His
face under normal conditions always achieved the maximum gloom possible for=
any
face, so he gave no outward sign of the shock which had shattered his mental
poise; but he expressed his emotion by walking nearly a mile without saying=
a
word. He was stunned. He had supported himself up till now by the thought t=
hat,
frightful as the expense of entertaining Jill as a guest might be, the outl=
ay
was a good sporting speculation if she intended buying house-property in th=
e neighbourhood.
The realization that he was down to the extent of a week's breakfasts, lunc=
hes,
and dinners, with nothing to show for it, appalled him. There had been a bl=
ack
morning some years before when Mr. Mariner had given a waiter a ten-dollar =
bill
in mistake for a one. As he had felt then, on discovering his error when it=
was
too late to retrieve it, so did he feel now.
"Twenty
dollars!" he exclaimed, at the end of the mile.
"Twenty
dollars," said Jill,
"But your fa=
ther
was a rich man." Mr. Mariner's voice was high and plaintive. "He =
made
a fortune over here before he went to England."
"It's all go=
ne.
I got nipped," said Jill, who was finding a certain amount of humor in=
the
situation, "in Amalgamated Dyes."
"Amalgamated
Dyes?"
"They're
something," explained Jill, "that people get nipped in."
Mr Mariner digest=
ed
this.
"You
speculated?" he gasped.
"Yes."<= o:p>
"You shouldn=
't
have been allowed to do it," said Mr Mariner warmly. "Major
Selby--your uncle ought to have known better than to allow you."
"Yes, oughtn=
't
he," said Jill demurely.
There was another
silence, lasting for about a quarter of a mile.
"Well, it's a
bad business," said Mr Mariner.
"Yes," =
said
Jill. "I've felt that myself."
=
*
* &nbs=
p;
*
The result of this
conversation was to effect a change in the atmosphere of Sandringham. The
alteration in the demeanor of people of parsimonious habit, when they disco=
ver
that the guest they are entertaining is a pauper and not, as they had suppo=
sed,
an heiress, is subtle but well-marked. In most cases, more well-marked than=
subtle.
Nothing was actually said, but there are thoughts that are almost as audibl=
e as
words. A certain suspense seemed to creep into the air, as happens when a
situation has been reached which is too poignant to last. Greek Tragedy aff=
ects
the reader with the same sense of over-hanging doom. Things, we feel, canno=
t go
on as they are.
That night, after
dinner, Mrs Mariner asked Jill to read to her.
"Print tries=
my
eyes so, dear," said Mrs Mariner. It was a small thing, but it had the
significance of that little cloud that arose out of the sea like a man's ha=
nd.
Jill appreciated the portent. She was, she perceived, to make herself usefu=
l.
"Of course I
will," she said cordially. "What would you me to read?"
She hated reading
aloud. It always made her throat sore, and her eye skipped to the end of ea=
ch
page and took the interest out of it long before the proper time. But she
proceeded bravely, for her conscience was troubling her. Her sympathy was
divided equally between these unfortunate people who had been saddled with =
an
undesired visitor and herself who had been placed in a position at which ev=
ery
independent nerve in her rebelled. Even as a child she had loathed being un=
der obligations
to strangers or those whom she did not love.
"Thank you,
dear," said Mrs Mariner, when Jill's voice had roughened to a weary cr=
oak.
"You read so well." She wrestled ineffectually with her handkerch=
ief
against the cold in the head from which she always suffered. "It would=
be
nice if you would do it every night, don't you think? You have no idea how
tired print makes my eyes."
On the following
morning after breakfast, at the hour when she had hitherto gone house-hunti=
ng
with Mr Mariner, the child Tibby, of whom up till now she had seen little
except at meals, presented himself to her, coated and shod for the open and
regarding her with a dull and phlegmatic gaze.
"Ma says will
you please take me for a nice walk!"
Jill's heart sank.
She loved children, but Tibby was not an ingratiating child. He was a Mr
Mariner in little. He had the family gloom. It puzzled Jill sometimes why t=
his
branch of the family should look on life with so jaundiced an eye. She
remembered her father as a cheerful man, alive to the small humors of life.=
"All right,
Tibby. Where shall we go?"
"Ma says we =
must
keep on the roads and I mustn't slide."
Jill was thoughtf=
ul
during the walk. Tibby, who was no conversationalist, gave her every
opportunity for meditation. She perceived that in the space of a few hours =
she
had sunk in the social scale. If there was any difference between her posit=
ion
and that of a paid nurse and companion, it lay in the fact that she was not
paid. She looked about her at the grim countryside, gave a thought to the c=
hill
gloom of the house to which she was about to return, and her heart sank.
Nearing home, Tib=
by
vouchsafed his first independent observation.
"The hired m=
an's
quit!"
"Has he?&quo=
t;
"Yep. Quit t=
his
morning."
It had begun to s=
now.
They turned and made their way back to the house. The information she had
received did not cause Jill any great apprehension. It was hardly likely th=
at
her new duties would include the stoking of the furnace. That and cooking
appeared to be the only acts about the house which were outside her present
sphere of usefulness.
"He killed a=
rat
once in the wood-shed with an axe," said Tibby chattily. "Yessir!
Chopped it right in half, and it bled!"
"Look at the
pretty snow falling on the trees," said Jill faintly.
At breakfast next
morning, Mrs Mariner having sneezed, made a suggestion.
"Tibby, darl=
ing,
wouldn't it be nice if you and cousin Jill played a game of pretending you =
were
pioneers in the Far West?"
"What's a pi=
oneer?"
enquired Tibby, pausing in the middle of an act of violence on a plate of
oatmeal.
"The pioneers
were the early settlers in this country, dear. You have read about them in =
your
history book. They endured a great many hardships, for life was very rough =
for
them, with no railroads or anything. I think it would be a nice game to play
this morning."
Tibby looked at J=
ill.
There was doubt in his eye. Jill returned his gaze sympathetically. One tho=
ught
was in both their minds.
"There is a
string to this!" said Tibby's eye.
"Exactly wha=
t I
think!" said Jill's.
Mrs Mariner sneez=
ed
again.
"You would h=
ave
lots of fun," she said.
"What'ud we
do?" asked Tibby cautiously. He had been this way before. Only last
Summer, on his mother's suggestion that he should pretend he was a ship-wre=
cked
sailor on a desert island, he had perspired through a whole afternoon cutti=
ng
the grass in front of the house to make a ship-wrecked sailor's simple bed.=
"I know,&quo=
t;
said Jill. "We'll pretend we're pioneers stormbound in their log cabin=
in
the woods, and the wolves are howling outside, and they daren't go out, so =
they
make a lovely big fire and sit in front of it and read."
"And eat
candy," suggested Tibby, warming to the idea.
"And eat
candy," agreed Jill.
Mrs Mariner frown=
ed.
"I was going=
to
suggest," she said frostily, "that you shovelled the snow away fr=
om
the front steps!"
"Splendid!&q=
uot;
said Jill. "Oh, but I forgot. I want to go to the village first."=
"There will =
be
plenty of time to do it when you get back."
"All right. =
I'll
do it when I get back."
It was a quarter =
of
an hour's walk to the village. Jill stopped at the post-office.
"Could you t=
ell
me," she asked, "when the next train is to New York?"
"There's one=
at
ten-ten," said the woman, behind the window. "You'll have to
hurry."
"I'll
hurry!" said Jill.
1.
Doctors, laying d=
own
the law in their usual confident way, tell us that the vitality of the human
body is at its lowest at two o'clock in the morning: and that it is then, a=
s a
consequence, that the mind is least able to contemplate the present with
equanimity, the future with fortitude, and the past without regret. Every
thinking man, however, knows that this is not so. The true zero hour, desol=
ate,
gloom-ridden, and specter-haunted, occurs immediately before dinner while we
are waiting for that cocktail. It is then that, stripped for a brief moment=
of
our armor of complacency and self-esteem, we see ourselves as we
are,--frightful chumps in a world where nothing goes right; a gray world in=
which,
hoping to click, we merely get the raspberry; where, animated by the best
intentions, we nevertheless succeed in perpetrating the scaliest bloomers a=
nd
landing our loved ones neck-deep in the gumbo.
So reflected Fred=
die
Rooke, that priceless old bean, sitting disconsolately in an arm-chair at t=
he
Drones Club about two weeks after Jill's departure from England, waiting for
his friend Algy Martyn to trickle in and give him dinner.
Surveying Freddie=
, as
he droops on his spine in the yielding leather, one is conscious of one's
limitations as a writer. Gloom like his calls for the pen of a master. Zola
could have tackled it nicely. Gorky might have made a stab at it. Dostoievs=
ky
would have handled it with relish. But for oneself the thing is too vast. O=
ne
cannot wangle it. It intimidates. It would have been bad enough in any case,
for Algy Martyn was late as usual and it always gave Freddie the pip to hav=
e to
wait for dinner: but what made it worse was the fact that the Drones was not
one of Freddie's clubs and so, until the blighter Algy arrived, it was
impossible for him to get his cocktail. There he sat, surrounded by happy,
laughing young men, each grasping a glass of the good old mixture-as-before,
absolutely unable to connect. Some of them, casual acquaintances, had nodde=
d to
him, waved, and gone on lowering the juice,--a spectacle which made Freddie
feel much as the wounded soldier would have felt if Sir Philip Sidney, inst=
ead
of offering him the cup of water, had placed it to his own lips and drained=
it
with a careless "Cheerio!" No wonder Freddie experienced the sort=
of
abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoi's Russian peasants when,
after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife,
and dropping the baby into the city reservoir, he turns to the cupboard, on=
ly
to find the vodka-bottle empty.
Freddie gave hims=
elf
up to despondency: and, as always in these days when he was mournful, he
thought of Jill. Jill's sad case was a continual source of mental anguish to
him. From the first he had blamed himself for the breaking-off of her
engagement with Derek. If he had not sent the message to Derek from the
police-station, the latter would never have known about their arrest, and a=
ll
would have been well. And now, a few days ago, had come the news of her fin=
ancial
disaster, with its attendant complications.
It had descended =
on
Freddie like a thunderbolt through the medium of Ronny Devereux.
"I say,"
Ronny had said, "have you heard the latest? Your pal, Underhill, has b=
roken
off his engagement with Jill Mariner."
"I know; rat=
her
rotten, what!"
"Rotten? I
should say so! It isn't done. I mean to say, chap can't chuck a girl just
because she's lost her money. Simply isn't on the board, old man!"
"Lost her mo=
ney?
What do you mean?"
Ronny was surpris=
ed.
Hadn't Freddie heard? Yes, absolute fact. He had it from the best authority.
Didn't know how it had happened and all that, but Jill Mariner had gone
completely bust; Underhill had given her the miss-in-baulk; and the poor gi=
rl had
legged it, no one knew where. Oh, Freddie had met her and she had told him =
she
was going to America? Well, then, legged it to America. But the point was t=
hat
the swine Underhill had handed her the mitten just because she was broke, a=
nd
that was what Ronny thought so bally rotten. Broker a girl is, Ronny meant =
to
say, more a fellow should stick to her.
"But--"
Freddie rushed to his hero's defence. "But it wasn't that at all.
Something quite different. I mean, Derek didn't even know Jill had lost her=
money.
He broke the engagement because . . ." Freddie stopped short. He didn't
want everybody to know of that rotten arrest business, as they infallibly w=
ould
if he confided in Ronny Devereux. Sort of thing he would never hear the last
of. "He broke it off because of something quite different."
"Oh, yes!&qu=
ot;
said Ronny skeptically.
"But he did,
really!"
Ronny shook his h=
ead.
"Don't you
believe it, old son. Don't you believe it. Stands to reason it must have be=
en
because the poor girl was broke. You wouldn't have done it and I wouldn't h=
ave
done it, but Underhill did, and that's all there is to it. I mean, a tick's=
a
tick, and there's nothing more to say. Well, I know he's been a pal of your=
s,
Freddie, but, next time I meet him, by Jove, I'll cut him dead. Only I don'=
t know
him to speak to, dash it!" concluded Ronny regretfully.
Ronny's news had
upset Freddie. Derek had returned to the Albany a couple of days ago, moody=
and
silent. They had lunched together at the Bachelors, and Freddie had been pa=
ined
at the attitude of his fellow clubmen. Usually, when he lunched at the
Bachelors, his table became a sort of social center. Cheery birds would rol=
l up
to pass the time of day, and festive old eggs would toddle over to have cof=
fee
and so forth, and all that sort of thing. Jolly! On this occasion nobody had
rolled, and all the eggs present had taken their coffee elsewhere. There wa=
s an
uncomfortable chill in the atmosphere of which Freddie had been acutely
conscious, though Derek had not appeared to notice it. The thing had only c=
ome
home to Derek yesterday at the Albany, when the painful episode of Wally Ma=
son
had occurred. It was this way:
"Hullo, Fred=
die,
old top! Sorry to have kept you waiting."
Freddie looked up
from his broken meditations, to find that his host had arrived.
"Hullo!"=
;
"A quick
bracer," said Algy Martyn, "and then the jolly old food-stuffs. I=
t's
pretty late, I see. Didn't notice how time was slipping."
Over the soup,
Freddie was still a prey to gloom. For once the healing gin-and-vermouth ha=
d failed
to do its noble work. He sipped sombrely, so sombrely as to cause comment f=
rom
his host.
"Pipped?&quo=
t;
enquired Algy solicitously.
"Pretty
pipped," admitted Freddie.
"Backed a
loser?"
"No."
"Something w=
rong
with the old tum?"
"No. . . .
Worried."
"Worried?&qu=
ot;
"About
Derek."
"Derek? Who'=
s .
. . ? Oh, you mean Underhill?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
Algy Martyn chase=
d an
elusive piece of carrot about his soup plate, watching it interestedly as it
slid coyly from the spoon.
"Oh?" he
said, with sudden coolness. "What about him?"
Freddie was too
absorbed in his subject to notice the change in his friend's tone.
"A dashed
unpleasant thing," he said, "happened yesterday morning at my pla=
ce.
I was just thinking about going out to lunch, when the door-bell rang and
Parker said a chappie of the name of Mason would like to see me. I didn't
remember any Mason, but Parker said the chappie said he knew me when I was a
kid. So he loosed him into the room, and it turned out to be a fellow I use=
d to
know years ago down in Worcestershire. I didn't know him from Adam at first,
but gradually the old bean got to work, and I placed him. Wally Mason his n=
ame
was. Rummily enough, he had spoken to me at the Leicester that night when t=
he
fire was, but not being able to place him, I had given him the miss somewha=
t.
You know how it is. Chappie you've never been introduced to says something =
to
you in a theatre, and you murmur something and sheer off. What?"
"Absolutely,=
"
agreed Algy Martyn. He thoroughly approved of Freddie's code of etiquette. =
Sheer
off. Only thing to do.
"Well, anyho=
w,
now that he had turned up again and told me who he was, I began to remember=
. We
had been kids together, don't you know. (What's this? Salmon? Oh, right ho.=
) So
I buzzed about and did the jovial host, you know; gave him a drink and a
toofer, and all that sort of thing; and talked about the dear old days and =
what
not. And so forth, if you follow me. Then he brought the conversation round=
to Jill.
Of course he knew Jill at the same time when he knew me, down in Worcesters=
hire,
you see. We were all pretty pally in those days, if you see what I mean. We=
ll,
this man Mason, it seems, had heard somewhere about Jill losing her money, =
and
he wanted to know if it was true. I said absolutely. Hadn't heard any detai=
ls,
but Ronny had told me and Ronny had had it from some one who had stable
information and all that sort of thing. 'Dashed shame, isn't it!' I said.
'She's gone to America, you know.' 'I didn't know,' he said. 'I understood =
she
was going to be married quite soon.' Well, of course, I told him that that =
was
off. He didn't say anything for a bit, then he said 'Off?' I said 'Off.' 'D=
id
she break it off?' asked the chappie. 'Well, no,' I said. 'As a matter of f=
act
Derek broke it off.' He said 'Oh!' (What? Oh yes, a bit of pheasant will be
fine.) Where was I? Oh, yes. He said 'Oh!' Now, before this, I ought to tell
you, this chappie Mason had asked me to come out and have a bit of lunch. I=
had
told him I was lunching with Derek, and he said 'Right ho,' or words to that
effect, 'Bring him along.' Derek had been out for a stroll, you see, and we
were waiting for him to come in. Well, just at this point or juncture, if y=
ou
know what I mean, in he came, and I said 'Oh, what ho!' and introduced Wally
Mason. 'Oh, do you know Underhill?' I said, or something like that. You know
the sort of thing. And then . . ."
Freddie broke off=
and
drained his glass. The recollection of that painful moment had made him
feverish. Social difficulties always did.
"Then
what?" enquired Algy Martyn.
"Well, it, w=
as
pretty rotten. Derek held out his hand, as a chappie naturally would, being
introduced to a strange chappie, and Wally Mason, giving it an absolute mis=
s,
went on talking to me just as if we were alone, you know. Look here. Here w=
as
I, where this knife is. Derek over here--this fork--with his hand out. Mason
here--this bit of bread. Mason looks at his watch, and says 'I'm sorry,
Freddie, but I find I've an engagement for lunch. So long!' and biffed out,=
without
apparently knowing Derek was on the earth. I mean . . ." Freddie reach=
ed
for his glass, "What I mean is, it was dashed embarrassing. I mean,
cutting a fellow dead in my rooms. I don't know when I've felt so rotten!&q=
uot;
Algy Martyn deliv=
ered
judgment with great firmness.
"Chappie was
perfectly right!"
"No, but I m=
ean
. . ."
"Absolutely
correct-o," insisted Algy sternly. "Underhill can't dash about all
over the place giving the girl he's engaged to the mitten because she's bro=
ke,
and expect no notice to be taken of it. If you want to know what I think, o=
ld
man, your pal Underhill--I can't imagine what the deuce you see in him, but,
school together and so forth, makes a difference, I suppose,--I say, if you
want to know what I think, Freddie, the blighter Underhill would be well
advised either to leg it after Jill and get her to marry him or else lie lo=
w for
a goodish while till people have forgotten the thing. I mean to say, fellows
like Ronny and I and Dick Wimpole and Archie Studd and the rest of our
lot,--well, we all knew Jill and thought she was a topper and had danced wi=
th
her here and there and seen her about and all that, and naturally we feel
pretty strongly about the whole dashed business. Underhill isn't in our
particular set, but we all know most of the people he knows, and we talk ab=
out
this business, and the thing gets about, and there you are! My sister, who =
was
a great pal of Jill's, swears that all the girls she knows mean to cut Unde=
rhill.
I tell you, Freddie, London's going to get pretty hot for him if he doesn't=
do
something dashed quick and with great rapidity!"
"But you hav=
en't
got the story right, old thing!"
"How not?&qu=
ot;
"Well, I mean
you think and Ronny thinks and all the rest of you think that Derek broke o=
ff
the engagement because of the money. It wasn't that at all."
"What was it,
then?"
"Well . . .
Well, look here, it makes me seem a fearful ass and all that, but I'd better
tell you. Jill and I were going down one of those streets near Victoria and=
a
blighter was trying to slay a parrot . . ."
"Parrot-shoo=
ting's
pretty good in those parts, they tell me," interjected Algy satiricall=
y.
"Don't
interrupt, old man. This parrot had got out of one of the houses, and a fel=
low
was jabbing at it with a stick, and Jill--you know what she's like; impulsi=
ve,
I mean, and all that--Jill got hold of the stick and biffed him with some v=
im,
and a policeman rolled up and the fellow made a fuss and the policeman took
Jill and me off to chokey. Well, like an ass, I sent round to Derek to bail=
us
out, and that's how he heard of the thing. Apparently he didn't think a lot=
of it,
and the result was that he broke off the engagement."
Algy Martin had
listened to this recital with growing amazement.
"He broke it=
off
because of that?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"What absolu=
te
rot!" said Algy Martyn. "I don't believe a word of it!"
"I say, old
man!"
"I don't bel=
ieve
a word of it," repeated Algy firmly. "And nobody else will either.
It's dashed good of you, Freddie, to cook up a yarn like that to try and ma=
ke
things look better for the blighter, but it won't work. Such a dam silly st=
ory,
too!" said Algy with some indignation.
"But it's
true!"
"What's the =
use,
Freddie, between old pals?" said Algy protestingly. "You know
perfectly well that Underhill's a cootie of the most pronounced order, and
that, when he found out that Jill hadn't any money, he chucked her."
"But why sho=
uld
Derek care whether Jill was well off or not? He's got enough money of his
own."
"Nobody,&quo=
t;
said Algy judicially, "has got enough money of his own. Underhill thou=
ght
he was marrying a girl with a sizeable chunk of the ready, and, when the fu=
se
blew out, he decided it wasn't good enough. For Heaven's sake don't let's t=
alk
any more about the blighter. It gives me a pain to think of him."
And Algy Martyn,
suppressing every effort which Freddie made to reopen the subject, turned t=
he
conversation to more general matters.
2.
Freddie returned =
to
the Albany in a state of gloom and uneasiness. Algy's remarks, coming on to=
p of
the Wally Mason episode, had shaken him. The London in which he and Derek m=
oved
and had their being is nothing but a village, and it was evident that villa=
ge
gossip was hostile to Derek. People were talking about him. Local opinion h=
ad decided
that he had behaved badly. Already one man had cut him. Freddie blenched at=
a sudden
vision of street-fulls of men, long Piccadillys of men, all cutting him, one
after the other. Something had got to be done. He was devoted to Derek. This
sort of thing was as bad as being cut himself. Whatever Freddie's limitatio=
ns
in the matter of brain, he had a large heart and an infinite capacity for f=
aithfulness
in his friendships.
The subject was n=
ot
an easy one to broach to his somewhat forbidding friend, as he discovered w=
hen
the latter arrived about half an hour later. Derek had been attending the
semi-annual banquet of the Worshipful Dry-Salters Company down in the City,
understudying one of the speakers, a leading member of Parliament, who had =
been
unable to appear; and he was still in the grip of that feeling of degraded =
repletion
which city dinners induce. The dry-salters, on these occasions when they ca=
st
off for a night the cares and anxieties of dry-salting, do their guests wel=
l,
and Derek had that bloated sense of foreboding which comes to a man whose
stomach is not his strong point after twelve courses and a multitude of mix=
ed
wines. A goose, qualifying for the role of a pot of pate de foies gras,
probably has exactly the same jaundiced outlook.
Yet, unfavorably
disposed as, judging by his silence and the occasional moody grunts he utte=
red,
he appeared to be to a discussion of his private affairs, it seemed to Fred=
die
impossible that the night should be allowed to pass without some word spoke=
n on
the subject. He thought of Ronny and what Ronny had said, of Algy and what =
Algy
had said, of Wally Mason and how Wally had behaved in this very room; and he
nerved himself to the task.
"Derek, old
top."
A grunt.
"I say, Dere=
k,
old bean."
Derek roused hims=
elf,
and looked gloomily across the room to where he stood, warming his legs at =
the
blaze.
"Well?"=
Freddie found a
difficulty in selecting words. A ticklish business, this. One that might we=
ll
have disconcerted a diplomat. Freddie was no diplomat, and the fact enabled=
him
to find a way in the present crisis. Equipped by nature with an amiable
tactlessness and a happy gift of blundering, he charged straight at the main
point, and landed on it like a circus elephant alighting on a bottle.
"I say, you
know, about Jill!"
He stooped to rub=
the
backs of his legs, on which the fire was playing with a little too fierce a
glow, and missed his companion's start and the sudden thickening of his bus=
hy
eyebrows.
"Well?"
said Derek again.
Freddie nerved
himself to proceed. A thought flashed across his mind that Derek was looking
exactly like Lady Underhill. It was the first time he had seen the family
resemblance quite so marked.
"Ronny Dever=
eux
was saying . . ." faltered Freddie.
"Damn Ronny
Devereux!"
"Oh, absolut=
ely!
But . . ."
"Ronny Dever=
eux!
Who the devil is Ronny Devereux?"
"Why, old ma=
n, you've
heard me speak of him, haven't you? Pal of mine. He came down to the station
with Algy and me to meet your mater that morning."
"Oh, that
fellow? And he has been saying something about . . . ?"
"It isn't on=
ly
Ronny, you know," Freddie hastened to interject. "Algy Martyn's
talking about it, too. And lots of other fellows. And Algy's sister and a l=
ot
of people. They're all saying . . ."
"What are th=
ey
saying?"
Freddie bent down=
and
chafed the back of his legs. He simply couldn't look at Derek while he had =
that
Lady Underhill expression on the old map. Rummy he had never noticed before=
how
extraordinarily like his mother he was. Freddie was conscious of a faint se=
nse
of grievance. He could not have put it into words, but what he felt was tha=
t a fellow
had no right to go about looking like Lady Underhill.
"What are th=
ey
saying?" repeated Derek grimly.
"Well . .
." Freddie hesitated. "That it's a bit tough . . . On Jill, you
know."
"They think I
behaved badly?"
"Well . . . =
Oh,
well, you know!"
Derek smiled a
ghastly smile. This was not wholly due to mental disturbance. The dull
heaviness which was the legacy of the Dry-Salters' dinner had begun to chan=
ge
to something more actively unpleasant. A sub-motive of sharp pain had begun=
to
run through it, flashing in and out like lightning through a thunder-cloud.=
He
felt sullen and vicious.
"I wonder,&q=
uot;
he said with savage politeness, "if, when you chat with your friends, =
you
would mind choosing some other topic than my private affairs."
"Sorry, old =
man.
But they started it, don't you know."
"And, if you
feel you've got to discuss me, kindly keep it to yourself. Don't come and t=
ell
me what your damned friends said to each other and to you and what you said=
to
them, because it bores me. I'm not interested. I don't value their opinions=
as
much as you seem to." Derek paused, to battle in silence with the
imperious agony within him. "It was good of you to put me up here,&quo=
t;
he went on, "but I think I won't trespass on your hospitality any long=
er.
Perhaps you'll ask Parker to pack my things tomorrow." Derek moved, as=
majestically
as an ex-guest of the Worshipful Company of Dry-Salters may, in the directi=
on
of the door. "I shall go to the Savoy."
"Oh, I say, =
old
man! No need to do that."
"Good
night."
"But, I say =
. .
."
"And you can
tell your friend Devereux that, if he doesn't stop poking his nose into my
private business, I'll pull it off."
"Well,"
said Freddie doubtfully, "of course I don't suppose you know, but . . .
Ronny's a pretty hefty bird. He boxed for Cambridge in the light-weights the
last year he was up, you know. He . . ."
Derek slammed the
door. Freddie was alone. He stood rubbing his legs for some minutes, a ruef=
ul
expression on his usually cheerful face. Freddie hated rows. He liked
everything to jog along smoothly. What a rotten place the world was these d=
ays!
Just one thing after another. First, poor old Jill takes the knock and
disappears. He would miss her badly. What a good sort! What a pal! And
now--gone. Biffed off. Next, Derek. Together, more or less, ever since
Winchester, and now--bing! . . .
Freddie heaved a
sigh, and reached out for the Sporting Times, his never-failing comfort in
times of depression. He lit another cigar and curled up in one of the
arm-chairs. He was feeling tired. He had been playing squash all the aftern=
oon,
a game at which he was exceedingly expert and to which he was much addicted=
.
Time passed. The
paper slipped to the floor. A cold cigar followed it. From the depths of the
chair came a faint snore . . .
*
* *
A hand on his
shoulder brought Freddie with a jerk troubled dreams. Derek was standing be=
side
him. A tousled Derek, apparently in pain.
"Freddie!&qu=
ot;
"Hullo!"=
;
A spasm twisted
Derek's face.
"Have you got
any pepsin?"
Derek uttered a
groan. What a mocker of our petty human dignity is this dyspepsia, bringing=
low
the haughtiest of us, less than love itself a respecter of persons. This wa=
s a
different Derek from the man who had stalked stiffly from the room two hours
before. His pride had been humbled upon the rack.
"Pepsin?&quo=
t;
Freddie blinked, =
the
mists of sleep floating gently before his eyes. He could not quite understa=
nd
what his friend was asking for. It had sounded just like pepsin, and he did=
n't
believe there was such a word.
"Yes. I've g=
ot
the most damned attack of indigestion."
The mists of sleep
rolled away from Freddie. He was awake again, and became immediately helpfu=
l.
These were the occasions when the Last of the Rookes was a good man to have=
at
your side. It was Freddie who suggested that Derek should recline in the
arm-chair which he had vacated; Freddie who nipped round the corner to the
all-night chemist's and returned with a magic bottle guaranteed to relieve =
an ostrich
after a surfeit of soda-water bottles; Freddie who mixed and administered t=
he
dose.
His ministrations
were rewarded. Presently the agony seemed to pass. Derek recovered.
One would say that
Derek became himself again, but that the mood of gentle remorse which came =
upon
him as he lay in the arm-chair was one so foreign to his nature. Freddie had
never seen him so subdued. He was like a convalescent child. Between them, =
the
all-night chemist and the Dry-Salters seemed to have wrought a sort of mira=
cle.
These temporary softenings of personality frequently follow city dinners. T=
he
time to catch your Dry-Salter in angelic mood is the day after the semi-ann=
ual
banquet. Go to him then and he will give you his watch and chain.
"Freddie,&qu=
ot;
said Derek.
They were sitting
over the dying fire. The clock on the mantelpiece, beside which Jill's
photograph had stood, pointed to ten minutes past two. Derek spoke in a low,
soft voice. Perhaps the doctors are right after all, and two o'clock is the
hour at which our self-esteem deserts us, leaving in its place regret for p=
ast
sins, good resolutions for future behavior.
"What do Algy
Martyn and the others say about . . . you know?"
Freddie hesitated.
Pity to start all that again.
"Oh, I
know," went on Derek. "They say I behaved like a cad."
"Oh, well . .
."
"They are qu=
ite
right. I did."
"Oh, I shoul=
dn't
say that, you know. Faults on both sides and all that sort of rot."
"I did!"
Derek stared into the fire. Scattered all over London at that moment, proba=
bly,
a hundred worshipful Dry-Salters were equally sleepless and subdued, looking
wide-eyed into black pasts. "Is it true she has gone to America,
Freddie?"
"She told me=
she
was going."
"What a fool
I've been!"
The clock ticked =
on
through the silence. The fire sputtered faintly, then gave a little wheeze,
like a very old man. Derek rested his chin on his hands, gazing into the as=
hes.
"I wish to G=
od I
could go over there and find her."
"Why don't
you?"
"How can I?
There may be an election coming on at any moment. I can't stir."
Freddie leaped fr=
om
his seat. The suddenness of the action sent a red-hot corkscrew of pain thr=
ough
Derek's head.
"What the
devil's the matter?" he demanded irritably. Even the gentle mood which
comes with convalescence after a City Dinner is not guaranteed to endure
against this sort of thing.
"I've got an
idea, old bean!"
"Well, there=
's
no need to dance, is there?"
"I've nothin=
g to
keep me here, you know. What's the matter with my popping over to America a=
nd
finding Jill?" Freddie tramped the floor, aglow. Each beat of his foot
jarred Derek, but he made no complaint.
"Could
you?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course I
could. I was saying only the other day that I had half a mind to buzz over.
It's a wheeze! I'll get on the next boat and charge over in the capacity of=
a
jolly old ambassador. Have her back in no time. Leave it to me, old thing! =
This
is where I come out strong!"
1.
New York welcomed
Jill, as she came out of the Pennsylvania Station into Seventh Avenue, with=
a
whirl of powdered snow that touched her cheek like a kiss, the cold, bracing
kiss one would expect from this vivid city. She stood at the station entran=
ce,
a tiny figure beside the huge pillars, looking round her with eager eyes. A
wind was whipping down the avenue. The sky was a clear, brilliant tent of t=
he brightest
blue. Energy was in the air, and hopefulness. She wondered if Mr Elmer Mari=
ner
ever came to New York. It was hard to see how even his gloom would contrive=
to
remain unaffected by the exhilaration of the place.
Yes, New York loo=
ked
good . . . good and exciting, with all the taxi-cabs rattling in at the dark
tunnel beside her, with all the people hurrying in and hurrying out, with a=
ll
this medley of street-cars and sky-signs and crushed snow and drays and hor=
ses
and policemen, and that vast hotel across the street, towering to heaven li=
ke a
cliff. It even smelt good. She remembered an old picture in Punch, of two
country visitors standing on the step of their railway carriage at a London
terminus, one saying ecstatically to other: "Don't speak! Just sniff!
Doesn't it smell of the Season!" She knew exactly how they had felt, a=
nd
she approved of their attitude. That was the right way to behave on being
introduced to a great metropolis. She stood and sniffed reverently. But for=
the
presence of the hurrying crowds, she could almost have imitated the example=
of that
king who kissed the soil of his country on landing from his ship.
She took Uncle Ch=
ris'
letter from her bag. He had written from an address on East Fifty-seventh
Street. There would be just time to catch him before he went out to lunch. =
She
hailed a taxi-cab which was coming out of the station.
It was a slow rid=
e,
halted repeatedly by congestion of the traffic, but a short one for Jill. S=
he
was surprised at herself, a Londoner of long standing, for feeling so
provincial and being so impressed. But London was far away. It belonged to a
life that seemed years ago and a world from which she had parted for ever.
Moreover, this was undeniably a stupendous city through which her taxi-cab =
was
carrying her. At Times Square the stream of the traffic plunged into a whir=
lpool,
swinging out of Broadway to meet the rapids which poured in from east, west,
and north. On Fifth Avenue all the automobiles in the world were gathered
together. On the sidewalks, pedestrians, muffled against the nipping chill =
of
the crisp air, hurried to and fro. And, above, that sapphire sky spread a r=
ich
velvet curtain which made the tops of the buildings stand out like the white
minarets of some eastern city of romance.
The cab drew up in
front of a stone apartment house; and Jill, getting out, passed under an aw=
ning
through a sort of mediaeval courtyard, gay with potted shrubs, to an inner
door. She was impressed. The very atmosphere was redolent of riches, and sh=
e wondered
how in the world Uncle Chris had managed to acquire wealth on this scale in=
the
extremely short space of time which had elapsed since his landing. There
bustled past her an obvious millionaire--or, more probably, a greater monar=
ch
of finance who looked down upon mere millionaires and out of the goodness of
his heart tried to check a tendency to speak patronisingly to them. He was
concealed to the eyebrows in a fur coat, and, reaching the sidewalk, was
instantly absorbed in a large limousine. Two expensive-looking ladies follo=
wed him.
Jill began to feel a little dazed. Evidently the tales one heard of fortunes
accumulated overnight in this magic city were true, and one of them must ha=
ve
fallen to the lot of Uncle Chris. For nobody to whom money was a concern co=
uld
possibly afford to live in a place like this. If Croesus and the Count of M=
onte
Cristo had applied for lodging there, the authorities would probably have
looked on them a little doubtfully at first and hinted at the desirability =
of a
month's rent in advance.
In a glass case
behind the inner door, reading a newspaper and chewing gum, sat a dignified=
old
man in the rich uniform of a general in the Guatemalan army. He was a brill=
iant
spectacle. He wore no jewelry, but this, no doubt, was due to a private dis=
taste
for display. As there was no one else of humbler rank at hand from whom Jill
could solicit an introduction and the privilege of an audience, she took the
bold step of addressing him directly.
"I want to s=
ee
Major Selby, please."
The Guatemalan
general arrested for a moment the rhythmic action of his jaws, lowered his
paper and looked at her with raised eyebrows. At first Jill thought that he=
was
registering haughty contempt, then she saw what she had taken for scorn was
surprise.
"Major
Selby?"
"Major
Selby."
"No Major Se=
lby
living here."
"Major
Christopher Selby."
"Not here,&q=
uot;
said the associate of ambassadors and the pampered pet of Guatemala's proud=
est
beauties. "Never heard of him in my life!"
2.
Jill had read wor=
ks
of fiction in which at certain crises everything had "seemed to swim&q=
uot;
in front of the heroine's eyes, but never till this moment had she experien=
ced
that remarkable sensation herself. The Savior of Guatemala did not actually
swim, perhaps, but he certainly flickered. She had to blink to restore his
prismatic outlines to their proper sharpness. Already the bustle and noise =
of New
York had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unreality which one
feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added the finishing touch=
.
Perhaps the fact =
that
she had said "please" to him when she opened the conversation tou=
ched
the heart of the hero of a thousand revolutions. Dignified and beautiful as=
he
was to the eye of the stranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he
lived in a world which rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. Peo=
ple
did not often say "please" to him. "Here!" "Hi!&qu=
ot;
and "Gosh darn you!" yes; but seldom "please." He seeme=
d to
approve of Jill, for he shifted his chewing-gum to a position which facilit=
ated
speech, and began to be helpful.
"What was the
name again?"
"Selby."=
;
"Howja spell
it?"
"S-e-l-b-y.&=
quot;
"S-e-l-b-y. =
Oh,
Selby?"
"Yes,
Selby."
"What was the
first name?"
"Christopher=
."
"Christopher=
?"
"Yes,
Christopher."
"Christopher
Selby? No one of that name living here."
"But there m=
ust
be."
The veteran shook=
his
head with an indulgent smile.
"You want Mr
Sipperley," he said tolerantly. In Guatemala these mistakes are always
happening. "Mr George Sipperley. He's on the fourth floor. What name s=
hall
I say?"
He had almost rea=
ched
the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is an age of just-as-good
substitutes, but she refused to accept any unknown Sipperley as a satisfact=
ory
alternative for Uncle Chris.
"I don't wan=
t Mr
Sipperley. I want Major Selby."
"Howja spell=
it
once more?"
"S-e-l-b-y.&=
quot;
"S-e-l-b-y. =
No
one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley--"--he spoke in a wheedling
voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to make Jill see what was in =
her
best interests--"Mr Sipperley's on the fourth floor. Gentleman in the =
real
estate business," he added insinuatingly. "He's got blond hair an=
d a
Boston bull-dog."
"He may be a=
ll
you say, and he may have a dozen bulldogs . . ."
"Only one. J=
ack
his name is."
". . . But he
isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote to me from this address.
This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?"
"This is
Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street," conceded the other cautiously.
"I've got his
letter here." She opened her bag, and gave an exclamation of dismay.
"It's gone!"
"Mr Sipperley
used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A Mr Robertson.
Dark-complected man with a mustache."
"I took it o=
ut
to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back. I must have dropped
it."
"There's a Mr
Rainsby on the seventh floor. He's a broker down on Wall Street. Short man =
with
an impediment in his speech."
Jill snapped the
clasp of her bag.
"Never
mind," she said. "I must have made a mistake. I was quite sure th=
at
this was the address, but it evidently isn't. Thank you so much. I'm so sor=
ry
to have bothered you."
She walked away,
leaving the Terror of Paraguay and all points west speechless: for people w=
ho
said "Thank you so much" to him were even rarer than those who sa=
id
"please." He followed her with an affectionate eye till she was o=
ut
of sight, then, restoring his chewing-gum to circulation, returned to the
perusal of his paper. A momentary suggestion presented itself to his mind t=
hat
what Jill had really wanted was Mr Willoughby on the eighth floor, but it w=
as
too late to say so now: and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of a s=
pirited
householder in Kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet and slain six, he
dismissed the matter from his mind.
3.
Jill walked back =
to
Fifth Avenue, crossed it, and made her way thoughtfully along the breezy st=
reet
which, flanked on one side by the Park and on the other by the green-roofed
Plaza Hotel and the apartment houses of the wealthy, ends in the humbler and
more democratic spaces of Columbus Circle. She perceived that she was in th=
at
position, familiar to melodrama, of being alone in a great city. The reflec=
tion
brought with it a certain discomfort. The bag that dangled from her wrist
contained all the money she had in the world, the very broken remains of th=
e twenty
dollars which Uncle Chris had sent her at Brookport. She had nowhere to go,
nowhere to sleep, and no immediately obvious means of adding to her capital=
. It
was a situation which she had not foreseen when she set out to walk to Broo=
kport
station.
She pondered over=
the
mystery of Uncle Chris' disappearance, and found no solution. The thing was
inexplicable. She was as sure of the address he had given in his letter as =
she
was of anything in the world. Yet at that address nothing had been heard of
him. His name was not even known. These were deeper waters than Jill was ab=
le
to fathom.
She walked on,
aimlessly. Presently she came to Columbus Circle, and, crossing Broadway at=
the
point where that street breaks out into an eruption of automobile stores, f=
ound
herself suddenly hungry, opposite a restaurant whose entire front was a she=
et
of plate glass. On the other side of this glass, at marble-topped tables,
apparently careless of their total lack of privacy, sat the impecunious, lu=
nching,
their every mouthful a spectacle for the passer-by. It reminded Jill of loo=
king
at fishes in an aquarium. In the center of the window, gazing out in a dist=
rait
manner over piles of apples and grape-fruit, a white-robed ministrant at a
stove juggled ceaselessly with buckwheat cakes. He struck the final note in=
the
candidness of the establishment, a priest whose ritual contained no mysteri=
es. Spectators
with sufficient time on their hands to permit them to stand and watch were
enabled to witness a New York mid-day meal in every stage of its career, fr=
om
its protoplasmic beginnings as a stream of yellowish-white liquid poured on=
top
of the stove to its ultimate Nirvana in the interior of the luncher in the =
form
of an appetising cake. It was a spectacle which no hungry girl could resist.
Jill went in, and, as she made her way among the tables, a voice spoke her
name.
"Miss
Mariner!"
Jill jumped, and
thought for a moment that the thing must have been an hallucination. It was
impossible that anybody in the place should have called her name. Except for
Uncle Chris, wherever he might be, she knew no one in New York. Then the vo=
ice
spoke again, competing valiantly with a clatter of crockery so uproarious a=
s to
be more like something solid than a mere sound.
"I couldn't
believe it was you!"
A girl in blue had
risen from the nearest table, and was staring at her in astonishment, Jill
recognized her instantly. Those big, pathetic eyes, like a lost child's, we=
re
unmistakable. It was the parrot girl, the girl whom she and Freddie Rooke h=
ad
found in the drawing-room, at Ovington Square that afternoon when the
foundations of the world had given way and chaos had begun.
"Good
gracious!" cried Jill. "I thought you were in London!"
That feeling of
emptiness and panic, the result of her interview with the Guatemalan genera=
l at
the apartment house, vanished magically. She sat down at this unexpected
friend's table with a light heart.
"Whatever are
you doing in New York?" asked the girl. "I never knew you meant to
come over."
"It was a li=
ttle
sudden. Still, here I am. And I'm starving. What are those things you're
eating?"
"Buckwheat
cakes."
"Oh, yes. I remember Uncle Chris talking about them on the boat. I'll have some."<= o:p>
"But when did
you come over?"
"I landed ab=
out
ten days ago. I've been down at a place called Brookport on Long Island. How
funny running into you like this!"
"I was surpr=
ised
that you remembered me."
"I've forgot=
ten
your name," admitted Jill frankly. "But that's nothing. I always
forget names."
"My name's N=
elly
Bryant."
"Of course. =
And
you're on the stage, aren't you?"
"Yes. I've j=
ust
got work with Goble and Cohn. . . . Hullo, Phil!"
A young man with a
lithe figure and smooth black hair brushed straight back from his forehead =
had
paused at the table on his way to the cashier's desk.
"Hello,
Nelly."
"I didn't kn=
ow
you lunched here."
"Don't often.
Been rehearsing with Joe up at the Century Roof, and had a quarter of an ho=
ur
to get a bite. Can I sit down?"
"Sure. This =
is
my friend, Miss Mariner."
The young man sho=
ok
hands with Jill, flashing an approving glance at her out of his dark, restl=
ess
eyes.
"Pleased to =
meet
you."
"This is Phil
Brown," said Nelly. "He plays the straight for Joe Widgeon. They'=
re
the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circuit."
"Oh, hush!&q=
uot;
said Mr Brown modestly. "You always were a great little booster,
Nelly."
"Well, you k=
now
you are! Weren't you held over at the Palace last time! Well, then!"
"That's
true," admitted the young man. "Maybe we didn't gool 'em, eh? Sto=
p me
on the street and ask me! Only eighteen bows second house Saturday!"
Jill was listenin=
g,
fascinated.
"I can't understand a word," she said. "It's like another language."<= o:p>
"You're from=
the
other side, aren't you?" asked Mr Brown.
"She only la=
nded
a week ago," said Nelly.
"I thought so from the accent," said Mr Brown. "So our talk sort of goes over t= he top, does it? Well, you'll learn American soon, if you stick around."<= o:p>
"I've learned
some already," said Jill. The relief of meeting Nelly had made her feel
very happy. She liked this smooth-haired young man. "A man on the train
this morning said to me, 'Would you care for the morning paper, sister?' I
said, 'No, thanks, brother, I want to look out of the window and think!'&qu=
ot;
"You meet a =
lot
of fresh guys on trains," commented Mr Brown austerely. "You want=
to
give 'em the cold-storage eye." He turned to Nelly. "Did you go d=
own
to Ike, as I told you?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Did you
cop?"
"Yes. I never
felt so happy in my life. I'd waited over an hour on that landing of theirs,
and then Johnny Miller came along, and I yelled in his ear that I was after
work, and he told me it would be all right. He's awfully good to girls who'=
ve
worked in shows for him before. If it hadn't been for him I might have been
waiting there still."
"Who,"
enquired Jill, anxious to be abreast of the conversation, "is Ike?&quo=
t;
"Mr Goble. W=
here
I've just got work. Goble and Cohn, you know."
"I never hea=
rd
of them!"
The young man
extended his hand.
"Put it
there!" he said. "They never heard of me! At least, the fellow I =
saw
when I went down to the office hadn't! Can you beat it?"
"Oh, did you=
go
down there, too?" asked Nelly.
"Sure. Joe
wanted to get in another show on Broadway. He'd sort of got tired of vodevi=
l.
Say, I don't want to scare you, Nelly, but, if you ask me, that show they're
putting out down there is a citron! I don't think Ike's got a cent of his o=
wn
money in it. My belief is that he's running it for a lot of amateurs. Why, =
say,
listen! Joe and I blow in there to see if there's anything for us, and ther=
e's
a tall guy in tortoiseshell cheaters sitting in Ike's office. Said he was t=
he
author and was engaging the principals. We told him who we were, and it did=
n't
make any hit with him at all. He said he had never heard of us. And, when we
explained, he said no, there wasn't going to be any of our sort of work in =
the
show. Said he was making an effort to give the public something rather bett=
er
than the usual sort of thing. No specialties required. He said it was an ef=
fort
to restore the Gilbert and Sullivan tradition. Say, who are these Gilbert a=
nd
Sullivan guys, anyway? They get written up in the papers all the time, and I
never met any one who'd run across them. If you want my opinion, that show =
down
there is a comic opera!"
"For heaven's
sake!" Nelly had the musical comedy performer's horror of the
older-established form of entertainment. "Why, comic opera died in the
year one!"
"Well, these
guys are going to dig it up. That's the way it looks to me." He lowered
his voice. "Say, I saw Clarice last night," he said in a confiden=
tial
undertone. "It's all right."
"It is?"=
;
"We've made =
it
up. It was like this . . ."
His conversation =
took
an intimate turn. He expounded for Nelly's benefit the inner history, with =
all
its ramifications, of a recent unfortunate rift between himself and "t=
he
best little girl in Flatbush,"--what he had said, what she had said, w=
hat
her sister had said, and how it all come right in the end. Jill might have =
felt
a little excluded, but for the fact that a sudden and exciting idea had com=
e to
her. She sat back, thinking. . . . After all, what else was she to do? She =
must
do something. . . .
She bent forward =
and
interrupted Mr Brown in his description of a brisk passage of arms between
himself and the best little girl's sister, who seemed to be an unpleasant s=
ort
of person in every way.
"Mr Brown.&q=
uot;
"Hello?"=
;
"Do you think
there would be any chance for me if I asked for work at Goble and Cohn's?&q=
uot;
"You're
joking!" cried Nelly.
"I'm not at
all."
"But what do=
you
want with work?"
"I've got to
find some. And right away, too."
"I don't
understand."
Jill hesitated. S=
he
disliked discussing her private affairs, but there was obviously no way of
avoiding it. Nelly was round-eyed and mystified, and Mr Brown had manifestl=
y no
intention whatever of withdrawing tactfully. He wanted to hear all.
"I've lost my
money," said Jill.
"Lost your
money! Do you mean . . . ?"
"I've lost it
all. Every penny I had in the world."
"Tough!"
interpolated Mr Brown judicially. "I broke once way out in a tank-town=
in
Oklahoma. The manager skipped with our salaries. Last we saw of him he was
doing the trip to Canada in nothing flat."
"But how?&qu=
ot;
gasped Nelly.
"It happened
about the time we met in London. Do you remember Freddie Rooke, who was at =
our
house that after-noon?"
A dreamy look came
into Nelly's eyes. There had not been an hour since their parting when she =
had
not thought of that immaculate sportsman. It would have amazed Freddie, cou=
ld
he have known, but to Nelly Bryant he was the one perfect man in an imperfe=
ct
world.
"Do I!"=
she
sighed ecstatically.
Mr Brown shot a k=
een
glance at her.
"Aha!" =
he
cried facetiously. "Who is he, Nelly? Who is this blue-eyed boy?"=
"If you want=
to
know," said Nelly, defiance in her tone, "he's the fellow who gav=
e me
fifty pounds, with no strings tied to it,--get that!--when I was broke in
London! If it hadn't been for him, I'd be there still."
"Did he?&quo=
t;
cried Jill. "Freddie!"
"Yes. Oh,
Gee!" Nelly sighed once more. "I suppose I'll never see him again=
in
this world."
"Introduce m=
e to
him, if you do," said Mr Brown. "He sounds just the sort of little
pal I'd like to have!"
"You remember
hearing Freddie say something about losing money in a slump on the Stock
Exchange," proceeded Jill. "Well, that was how I lost mine. It's a
long story, and it's not worth talking about, but that's how things stand, =
and
I've got to find work of some sort, and it looks to me as if I should have a
better chance of finding it on the stage than anywhere else."
"I'm terribly
sorry."
"Oh, it's all
right. How much would these people Goble and Cohn give me if I got an
engagement?"
"Only forty a
week."
"Forty dolla=
rs a
week! It's wealth! Where are they?"
"Over at the
Gotham Theatre in Forty-second Street."
"I'll go the=
re
at once."
"But you'll =
hate
it. You don't realize what it's like. You wait hours and hours and nobody s=
ees
you."
"Why shouldn=
't I
walk straight in and say that I've come for work?"
Nelly's big eyes =
grew
bigger.
"But you
couldn't!"
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
"Why, you
couldn't!"
"I don't see
why."
Mr Brown interven=
ed
with decision.
"You're dead
right," he said to Jill approvingly. "If you ask me, that's the o=
nly
sensible thing to do. Where's the sense of hanging around and getting stall=
ed?
Managers are human guys, some of 'em. Probably, if you were to try it, they=
'd
appreciate a bit of gall. It would show 'em you'd got pep. You go down there
and try walking straight in. They can't eat you. It makes me sick when I see
all those poor devils hanging about outside these offices, waiting to get n=
oticed
and nobody ever paying any attention to them. You push the office-boy in the
face if he tries to stop you, and go in and make 'em take notice. And, what=
ever
you do, don't leave your name and address! That's the old, moth-eaten gag
they're sure to try to pull on you. Tell 'em there's nothing doing. Say you=
're
out for a quick decision! Stand 'em on their heads!"
Jill got up, fire=
d by
this eloquence. She called for her check.
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
she said. "I'm going to do exactly as you say. Where can I find you
afterwards?" she said to Nelly.
"You aren't
really going?"
"I am!"=
Nelly scribbled o=
n a
piece of paper.
"Here's my
address. I'll be in all evening."
"I'll come a=
nd
see you. Good-bye, Mr Brown. And thank you."
"You're
welcome!" said Mr Brown.
Nelly watched Jill
depart with wide eyes.
"Why did you
tell her to do that?" she said.
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
said Mr Brown. "I started something, didn't I? Well, I guess I'll have=
to
be leaving, too. Got to get back to rehearsal. Say, I like that friend of
yours, Nelly. There's no yellow streak about her! I wish her luck!"
1.
THE offices of Me=
ssrs
Goble and Cohn were situated, like everything else in New York that apperta=
ins
to the drama, in the neighborhood of Times Square. They occupied the fifth =
floor
of the Gotham Theatre on West Forty-second Street. As there was no elevator=
in
the building except the small private one used by the two members of the fi=
rm, Jill
walked up the stairs, and found signs of a thriving business beginning to
present themselves as early as the third floor, where half a dozen patient
persons of either sex had draped themselves like roosting fowls upon the
banisters. There were more on the fourth floor, and the landing of the fift=
h,
which served the firm as a waiting-room, was quite full. It is the custom of
theatrical managers--the lowest order of intelligence, with the possible ex=
ception
of the limax maximus or garden slug, known to science--to omit from their
calculations the fact that they are likely every day to receive a large num=
ber
of visitors, whom they will be obliged to keep waiting; and that these peop=
le
will require somewhere to wait. Such considerations never occur to them. Me=
ssrs
Goble and Cohn had provided for those who called to see them one small benc=
h on
the landing, conveniently situated at the intersecting point of three draug=
hts,
and had let it go at that.
Nobody, except
perhaps the night-watchman, had ever seen this bench empty. At whatever hou=
r of
the day you happened to call, you would always find three wistful individua=
ls
seated side by side with their eyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the
office-boy, the telephone-girl, and Mr Goble's stenographer. Beyond this was
the door marked "Private," through which, as it opened to admit s=
ome
careless, debonair, thousand-dollar-a-week comedian who sauntered in with a=
jaunty
"Hello, Ike!" or some furred and scented female star, the rank and
file of the profession were greeted, like Moses on Pisgah, with a fleeting
glimpse of the promised land, consisting of a large desk and a section of a
very fat man with spectacles and a bald head or a younger man with fair hair
and a double chin.
The keynote of the
mass meeting on the landing was one of determined, almost aggressive smartn=
ess.
The men wore bright overcoats with bands round the waist, the women those
imitation furs which to the uninitiated eye appear so much more expensive t=
han
the real thing. Everybody looked very dashing and very young, except about =
the
eyes. Most of the eyes that glanced at Jill were weary. The women were near=
ly
all blondes, blondness having been decided upon in the theatre as the color
that brings the best results. The men were all so much alike that they seem=
ed
to be members of one large family,--an illusion which was heightened by the
scraps of conversation, studded with "dears," "old mans,&quo=
t;
and "honeys," which came to Jill's ears. A stern fight for suprem=
acy
was being waged by a score or so of lively and powerful young scents.
For a moment Jill=
was
somewhat daunted by the spectacle, but she recovered almost immediately. The
exhilarating and heady influence of New York still wrought within her. The
Berserk spirit was upon her, and she remembered the stimulating words of Mr
Brown, of Brown and Widgeon, the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circ=
uit.
"Walk straight in!" had been the burden of his inspiring address.=
She
pushed her way through the crowd until she came to the small ante-room.
In the ante-room =
were
the outposts, the pickets of the enemy. In one corner a girl was hammering
energetically and with great speed on a typewriter: a second girl, seated a=
t a
switchboard, was having an argument with Central which was already warm and
threatened to descend shortly to personalities: on a chair tilted back so t=
hat
it rested against the wall, a small boy sat eating candy and reading the co=
mic
page of an evening newspaper. All three were enclosed, like zoological
specimens, in a cage formed by a high counter terminating in brass bars.
Beyond these watc=
hers
on the threshold was the door marked "Private." Through it, as Ji=
ll
reached the outer defences, filtered the sound of a piano.
Those who have
studied the subject have come to the conclusion that the boorishness of
theatrical managers' office-boys cannot be the product of mere chance.
Somewhere, in some sinister den in the criminal districts of the town, ther=
e is
a school where small boys are trained for these positions, where their finer
instincts are rigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated by=
competent
professors. Of this school the candy-eating Cerberus of Messrs Goble and Co=
hn
had been the star scholar. Quickly seeing his natural gifts, his teachers h=
ad
given him special attention. When he had graduated, it had been amidst the
cordial good wishes of the entire faculty. They had taught him all they kne=
w,
and they were proud of him. They felt that he would do them credit.
This boy raised a
pair of pink-rimmed eyes to Jill, sniffed--for like all theatrical managers'
office-boys he had a permanent cold in the head--bit his thumb-nail, and sp=
oke.
He was a snub-nosed boy. His ears and hair were vermilion. His name was Ral=
ph.
He had seven hundred and forty-three pimples.
"Woddyerwant=
?"
enquired Ralph, coming within an ace of condensing the question into a word=
of
one syllable.
"I want to s=
ee
Mr Goble."
"Zout!"
said the Pimple King, and returned to his paper.
There will, no do=
ubt,
always be class distinctions. Sparta had her kings and her helots, King
Arthur's Round Table its knights and its scullions, America her Simon Legre=
e and
her Uncle Tom. But in no nation and at no period of history has any one ever
been so brutally superior to any one else as is the Broadway theatrical
office-boy to the caller who wishes to see the manager. Thomas Jefferson he=
ld
these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they =
are
endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these
rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Theatrical office-b=
oys
do not see eye to eye with Thomas. From their pinnacle they look down on the
common herd, the canaille, and despise them. They coldly question their rig=
ht
to live.
Jill turned pink.=
Mr
Brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing this situation, had, she remembered,
recommended "pushing the office-boy in the face": and for a moment
she felt like following his advice. Prudence, or the fact that he was out of
reach behind the brass bars, restrained her. Without further delay she made=
for
the door of the inner room. That was her objective, and she did not intend =
to
be diverted from it. Her fingers were on the handle before any of those pre=
sent
divined her intention. Then the stenographer stopped typing and sat with ra=
ised
fingers, aghast. The girl at the telephone broke off in mid-sentence and st=
ared
round over her shoulder. Ralph, the office-boy, outraged, dropped his paper=
and
constituted himself the spokesman of the invaded force.
"Hey!"<= o:p>
Jill stopped and =
eyed
the lad militantly.
"Were you
speaking to me?"
"Yes, I was
speaking to you!"
"Don't do it
again with your mouth full," said Jill, turning to the door.
The belligerent f=
ire
in the office-boy's pink-rimmed eyes was suddenly dimmed by a gush of water=
. It
was not remorse that caused him to weep, however. In the heat of the moment=
he
had swallowed a large, jagged piece of candy, and he was suffering severely=
.
"You can't g=
o in
there!" he managed to articulate, his iron will triumphing over the fl=
esh
sufficiently to enable him to speak.
"I am going =
in
there!"
"That's Mr
Goble's private room."
"Well, I wan=
t a
private talk with Mr Goble."
Ralph, his eyes s=
till
moist, felt that the situation was slipping from his grip. This sort of thi=
ng
had never happened to him before.
"I tell ya he
zout!"
Jill looked at him
sternly.
"You wretched
child!" she said, encouraged by a sharp giggle from the neighborhood of
the switchboard. "Do you know where little boys go who don't speak the
truth? I can hear him playing the piano. Now he's singing! And it's no good
telling me he's busy. If he was busy, he wouldn't have time to sing. If you=
're
as deceitful as this at your age, what do you expect to be when you grow up?
You're an ugly little boy, you've got red ears, and your collar doesn't fit=
! I
shall speak to Mr Goble about you."
With which words =
Jill
opened the door and walked in.
"Good
afternoon," she said brightly.
After the congest=
ed
and unfurnished discomfort of the landing, the room in which Jill found her=
self
had an air of cosiness and almost of luxury. It was a large room, solidly
upholstered. Along the further wall, filling nearly the whole of its space,
stood a vast and gleaming desk, covered with a litter of papers which rose =
at
one end of it to a sort of mountain of play-scripts in buff covers. There w=
as a
bookshelf to the left. Photographs covered the walls. Near the window was a
deep leather lounge: to the right of this stood a small piano, the music-st=
ool
of which was occupied by a young man with untidy black hair that needed
cutting. On top of the piano, taking the eye immediately by reason of its b=
old
brightness, was balanced a large cardboard poster. Much of its surface was
filled by a picture of a youth in polo costume bending over a blonde goddes=
s in
a bathing-suit. What space was left displayed the legend:
=
ISAAC GOBLE AND JACOB COHN =
=
PRESENT
=
THE
ROSE OF AMERICA =
(A
Musical Fantasy)
BOOK
AND LYRICS BY OTIS PILKINGTON =
MUSIC
BY ROLAND TREVIS
Turning her eyes =
from
this, Jill became aware that something was going on at the other side of the
desk: and she perceived that a second young man, the longest and thinnest s=
he
had ever seen, was in the act of rising to his feet, length upon length lik=
e an
unfolding snake. At the moment of her entry he had been lying back in an of=
fice-chair,
so that only a merely nominal section of his upper structure was visible. N=
ow
he reared his impressive length until his head came within measurable dista=
nce
of the ceiling. He had a hatchet face and a receding chin, and he gazed at =
Jill
through what she assumed were the "tortoiseshell cheaters" referr=
ed
to by her recent acquaintance, Mr Brown.
"Er . . .
?" said this young man enquiringly in a high, flat voice.
Jill, like many o=
ther
people, had a brain which was under the alternating control of two
diametrically opposite forces. It was like an automobile steered in turn by=
two
drivers, the one a dashing, reckless fellow with no regard for the speed
limits, the other a timid novice. All through the proceedings up to this po=
int
the dasher had been in command. He had whisked her along at a break-neck pa=
ce, ignoring
obstacles and police regulations. Now, having brought her to this situation=
, he
abruptly abandoned the wheel and turned it over to his colleague, the shrin=
ker.
Jill, greatly daring a moment ago, now felt an overwhelming shyness.
She gulped, and h=
er
heart beat quickly. The thin man towered over her. The black-haired pianist
shook his locks at her like Banquo.
"I . . .&quo=
t;
she began.
Then, suddenly,
womanly intuition came to her aid. Something seemed to tell her that these =
men
were just as scared as she was. And, at the discovery, the dashing driver
resumed his post at the wheel, and she began to deal with the situation with
composure.
"I want to s=
ee
Mr Goble."
"Mr Goble is
out," said the long young man, plucking nervously at the papers on the
desk. Jill had affected him powerfully.
"Out!" =
She
felt she had wronged the pimpled office-boy.
"We are not
expecting him back this afternoon. Is there anything I can do?"
He spoke tenderly.
This weak-minded young man--at school his coarse companions had called him
Simp--was thinking that he had never seen anything like Jill before. And it=
was
true that she was looking very pretty, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes
sparkling. She touched a chord in the young man which seemed to make the wo=
rld
a flower-scented thing, full of soft music. Often as he had been in love at
first sight before in his time, Otis Pilkington could not recall an occasio=
n on
which he had been in love at first sight more completely than now. When she
smiled at him, it was as if the gates of heaven had opened. He did not refl=
ect
how many times, in similar circumstances, these same gates had opened befor=
e;
and that on one occasion when they had done so it had cost him eight thousa=
nd
dollars to settle the case out of court. One does not think of these things=
at
such times, for they strike a jarring note. Otis Pilkington was in love. Th=
at
was all he knew, or cared to know.
"Won't you t=
ake
a seat, Miss . . ."
"Mariner,&qu=
ot;
prompted Jill. "Thank you."
"Miss Marine=
r.
May I introduce Mr Roland Trevis?"
The man at the pi=
ano
bowed. His black hair heaved upon his skull like seaweed in a ground swell.=
"My name is
Pilkington. Otis Pilkington."
The uncomfortable
silence which always follows introductions was broken by the sound of the
telephone-bell on the desk. Otis Pilkington, who had moved out into the room
and was nowhere near the desk, stretched forth a preposterous arm and remov=
ed
the receiver.
"Yes? Oh, wi=
ll
you say, please, that I have a conference at present." Jill was to lea=
rn
that people in the theatrical business never talked: they always held
conferences. "Tell Mrs Peagrim that I shall be calling later in the
afternoon, but cannot be spared just now." He replaced the receiver.
"Aunt Olive's secretary," he murmured in a soft aside to Mr Trevi=
s.
"Aunt Olive wanted me to go for a ride." He turned to Jill.
"Excuse me. Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Mariner?"
Jill's composure =
was
now completely restored. This interview was turning out so totally different
from anything she had expected. The atmosphere was cosy and social. She fel=
t as
if she were back in Ovington Square, giving tea to Freddie Rooke and Ronny
Devereux and the rest of her friends of the London period. All that was nee=
ded
to complete the picture was a tea-table in front of her. The business note
hardly intruded on the proceedings at all. Still, as business was the objec=
t of
her visit, she felt that she had better approach it.
"I came for
work."
"Work!"
cried Mr Pilkington. He, too, appeared to be regarding the interview as pur=
ely
of a social nature.
"In the
chorus," explained Jill.
Mr Pilkington see=
med
shocked. He winced away from the word as though it pained him.
"There is no
chorus in 'The Rose of America,'" he said.
"I thought it
was a musical comedy."
Mr Pilkington win=
ced
again.
"It is a mus=
ical
fantasy!" he said. "But there will be no chorus. We shall have,&q=
uot;
he added, a touch of rebuke in his voice, "the services of twelve refi=
ned
ladies of the ensemble."
Jill laughed.
"It does sou=
nd
much better, doesn't it!" she said. "Well, am I refined enough, do
you think?"
"I shall be =
only
too happy if you will join us," said Mr Pilkington promptly.
The long-haired
composer looked doubtful. He struck a note up in the treble, then whirled r=
ound
on his stool.
"If you don't
mind my mentioning it, Otie, we have twelve girls already."
"Then we must
have thirteen," said Otis Pilkington firmly.
"Unlucky
number," argued Mr Trevis.
"I don't car=
e.
We must have Miss Mariner. You can see for yourself that she is exactly the
type we need."
He spoke feelingl=
y.
Ever since the business of engaging a company had begun, he had been thinki=
ng
wistfully of the evening when "The Rose of America" had had its
opening performance--at his aunt's house at Newport last Summer--with an
all-star cast of society favorites and an ensemble recruited entirely from
debutantes and matrons of the Younger Set. That was the sort of company he =
had
longed to assemble for the piece's professional career, and until this afte=
rnoon
he had met with nothing but disappointment. Jill seemed to be the only girl=
in
theatrical New York who came up to the standard he would have liked to dema=
nd.
"Thank you v=
ery
much," said Jill.
There was another
pause. The social note crept into the atmosphere again. Jill felt the hoste=
ss'
desire to keep conversation circulating.
"I hear,&quo=
t;
she said, "that this piece is a sort of Gilbert and Sullivan opera.&qu=
ot;
Mr Pilkington
considered the point.
"I
confess," he said, "that, in writing the book, I had Gilbert befo=
re
me as a model. Whether I have in any sense succeeded in . . ."
"The book,&q=
uot;
said Mr Trevis, running his fingers over the piano, "is as good as
anything Gilbert ever wrote."
"Oh come,
Rolie!" protested Mr Pilkington modestly.
"Better,&quo=
t; insisted
Mr Trevis. "For one thing, it is up-to-date."
"I do try to
strike the modern tone," murmured Mr Pilkington.
"And you have
avoided Gilbert's mistake of being too fanciful."
"He was
fanciful," admitted Mr Pilkington. "The music," he added, in=
a
generous spirit of give and take, "has all Sullivan's melody with a ne=
wness
of rhythm peculiarly its own. You will like the music."
"It
sounds," said Jill amiably, "as though the piece is bound to be a=
tremendous
success."
"We hope
so," said Mr Pilkington. "We feel that the time has come when the
public is beginning to demand something better than what it has been accust=
omed
to. People are getting tired of the brainless trash and jingly tunes which =
have
been given them by men like Wallace Mason and George Bevan. They want a cer=
tain
polish. . . . It was just the same in Gilbert and Sullivan's day. They star=
ted
writing at a time when the musical stage had reached a terrible depth of
inanity. The theatre was given over to burlesques of the most idiotic descr=
iption.
The public was waiting eagerly to welcome something of a higher class. It is
just the same today. But the managers will not see it. 'The Rose of America'
went up and down Broadway for months, knocking at managers' doors."
"It should h=
ave
walked in without knocking, like me," said Jill. She got up. "Wel=
l,
it was very kind of you to see me when I came in so unceremoniously. But I =
felt
it was no good waiting outside on that landing. I'm so glad everything is
settled. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, M=
iss
Mariner." Mr Pilkington took her outstretched hand devoutly. "The=
re
is a rehearsal called for the ensemble at--when is it, Rolie?"
"Eleven o'cl=
ock,
day after tomorrow, at Bryant Hall."
"I'll be
there," said Jill. "Good-bye, and thank you very much."
The silence which=
had
fallen upon the room as she left it, was broken by Mr Trevis.
"Some pip!&q=
uot;
observed Mr Trevis.
Otis Pilkington a=
woke
from day-dreams with a start.
"What did you
say?"
"That girl .=
. .
I said she was some pippin!"
"Miss
Mariner," said Mr Pilkington icily, "is a most charming, refined,
cultured, and vivacious girl, if you mean that."
"Yes," =
said
Mr Trevis. "That was what I meant!"
2.
Jill walked out i= nto Forty-second Street, looking about her with the eye of a conqueror. Very li= ttle change had taken place in the aspect of New York since she had entered the Gotham Theatre, but it seemed a different city to her. An hour ago, she had been a stranger, drifting aimlessly along its rapids. Now she belonged to N= ew York, and New York belonged to her. She had faced it squarely, and forced f= rom it the means of living. She walked on with a new jauntiness in her stride.<= o:p>
The address which
Nelly had given her was on the east side of Fifth Avenue. She made her way
along Forty-second Street. It seemed the jolliest, alivest street she had e=
ver
encountered. The rattle of the Elevated as she crossed Sixth Avenue was mus=
ic,
and she loved the crowds that jostled her with every step she took.
She reached the F=
ifth
Avenue corner just as the policeman out in the middle of the street swung h=
is
Stop-and-Go post round to allow the up-town traffic to proceed on its way. A
stream of automobiles which had been dammed up as far as the eye could reach
began to flow swiftly past. They moved in a double line, red limousines, bl=
ue limousines,
mauve limousines, green limousines. She stood waiting for the flood to ceas=
e,
and, as she did so, there purred past her the biggest and reddest limousine=
of
all. It was a colossal vehicle with a polar-bear at the steering-wheel and
another at his side. And in the interior, very much at his ease, his gaze b=
ent
courteously upon a massive lady in a mink coat, sat Uncle Chris.
For a moment he w=
as
so near to her that, but for the closed window, she could have touched him.
Then the polar-bear at the wheel, noting a gap in the traffic, stepped on t=
he
accelerator and slipped neatly through. The car moved swiftly on and
disappeared.
Jill drew a deep
breath. The Stop-and-Go sign swung round again. She crossed the avenue, and=
set
out once more to find Nelly Bryant. It occurred to her, five minutes later,
that a really practical and quick-thinking girl would have noted the number=
of
the limousine.
1.
The rehearsals of=
a
musical comedy--a term which embraces "musical fantasies"--genera=
lly
begin in a desultory sort of way at that curious building, Bryant Hall, on
Sixth Avenue just off Forty-second Street. There, in a dusty, uncarpeted ro=
om,
simply furnished with a few wooden chairs and some long wooden benches, the
chorus--or, in the case of "The Rose of America," the ensemble--s=
it
round a piano and endeavor, with the assistance of the musical director, to=
get
the words and melodies of the first-act numbers into their heads. This done,
they are ready for the dance director to instil into them the steps, the
groupings, and the business for the encores, of which that incurable optimi=
st
always seems to expect there will be at least six. Later, the principals are
injected into the numbers. And finally, leaving Bryant Hall and dodging abo=
ut from
one unoccupied theatre to another, principals and chorus rehearse together,
running through the entire piece over and over again till the opening night=
of
the preliminary road tour.
To Jill, in the e=
arly
stages, rehearsing was just like being back at school. She could remember h=
er
first school-mistress, whom the musical director somewhat resembled in mann=
er
and appearance, hammering out hymns on a piano and leading in a weak sopran=
o an
eager, baying pack of children, each anxious from motives of pride to out-b=
awl
her nearest neighbor.
The proceedings b=
egan
on the first morning with the entrance of Mr Saltzburg, the musical directo=
r, a
brisk, busy little man with benevolent eyes behind big spectacles, who bust=
led
over to the piano, sat down, and played a loud chord, designed to act as a =
sort
of bugle blast, rallying the ladies of the ensemble from the corners where =
they
sat in groups, chatting. For the process of making one another's acquaintan=
ce
had begun some ten minutes before with mutual recognitions between those who
knew each other from having been together in previous productions. There
followed rapid introductions of friends. Nelly Bryant had been welcomed war=
mly
by a pretty girl with red hair, whom she introduced to Jill as Babe: Babe h=
ad a
willowy blonde friend, named Lois: and the four of them had seated themselv=
es
on one of the benches and opened a conversation; their numbers being added =
to a
moment later by a dark girl with a Southern accent and another blonde.
Elsewhere other groups had formed, and the room was filled with a noise like
the chattering of starlings. In a body by themselves, rather forlorn and
neglected, half a dozen solemn and immaculately dressed young men were prop=
ping
themselves up against the wall and looking on, like men in a ball-room who =
do
not dance.
Jill listened to =
the
conversation without taking any great part in it herself. She felt as she h=
ad
done on her first day at school, a little shy and desirous of effacing hers=
elf.
The talk dealt with clothes, men, and the show business, in that order of
importance. Presently one of the young men sauntered diffidently across the
room and added himself to the group with the remark that it was a fine day.=
He
was received a little grudgingly, Jill thought, but by degrees succeeded in
assimilating himself. A second young man drifted up; reminded the willowy g=
irl
that they had worked together in the western company of "You're the
One"; was recognized and introduced; and justified his admission to the
circle by a creditable imitation of a cat-fight. Five minutes later he was
addressing the Southern girl as "honey," and had informed Jill th=
at
he had only joined this show to fill in before opening on the three-a-day w=
ith
the swellest little song-and-dance act which he and a little girl who worke=
d in
the cabaret at Geisenheimer's had fixed up.
On this scene of
harmony and good-fellowship Mr Saltzburg's chord intruded jarringly. There =
was
a general movement, and chairs and benches were dragged to the piano. Mr
Saltzburg causing a momentary delay by opening a large brown music-bag and
digging in it like a terrier at a rat-hole, conversation broke out again.
Mr Saltzburg emer=
ged
from the bag, with his hands full of papers, protesting.
"Childrun!
Chil-drun! If you please, less noise and attend to me!" He distributed
sheets of paper. "Act One, Opening Chorus. I will play the melody
three--four times. Follow attentively. Then we will sing it la-la-la, and a=
fter
that we will sing the words. So!"
He struck the
yellow-keyed piano a vicious blow, producing a tinny and complaining sound.
Bending forward with his spectacles almost touching the music, he plodded
determinedly through the tune, then encored himself, and after that encored
himself again. When he had done this, he removed his spectacles and wiped t=
hem.
There was a pause.
"Izzy," observed the willowy young lady chattily, leaning across Jill and addressing the Southern girl's blonde friend, "has promised me a sunburst!"<= o:p>
A general stir of
interest and a coming close together of heads.
"What!
Izzy!"
"Sure,
Izzy."
"Well!"=
"He's just
landed the hat-check privilege at the St Aurea!"
"You don't
say!"
"He told me =
so
last night and promised me the sunburst. He was," admitted the willowy
girl regretfully, "a good bit tanked at the time, but I guess he'll ma=
ke
good." She mused awhile, a rather anxious expression clouding her perf=
ect
profile. She looked like a meditative Greek Goddess. "If he doesn't,&q=
uot;
she added with maidenly dignity, "it's the las' time I go out with the=
big
stiff. I'd tie a can to him quicker'n look at him!"
A murmur of appro=
val
greeted this admirable sentiment.
"Childrun!&q=
uot;
protested Mr Saltzburg. "Chil-drun! Less noise and chatter of
conversation. We are here to work! We must not waste time! So! Act One, Ope=
ning
Chorus. Now, all together. La-la-la . . ."
"La-la-la . .
."
"Tum-tum-tum=
ty-tumty
. . ."
"Tum-tum-tum=
ty .
. ."
Mr Saltzburg pres=
sed
his hands to his ears in a spasm of pain.
"No, no, no!
Sour! Sour! Sour! . . . Once again. La-la-la . . ."
A round-faced girl
with golden hair and the face of a wondering cherub interrupted, speaking w=
ith
a lisp.
"Mithter
Thalzburg."
"Now what is=
it,
Miss Trevor?"
"What sort o=
f a
show is this?"
"A musical
show," said Mr Saltzburg severely, "and this is a rehearsal of it,
not a conversazione. Once more, please . . ."
The cherub was no=
t to
be rebuffed.
"Is the music
good, Mithter Thalzburg?"
"When you ha=
ve
rehearsed it, you shall judge for yourself. Come, now . . ."
"Is there anything in it as good as that waltz of yours you played us when we were rehearthing 'Mind How You Go?' You remember. The one that went . . ."<= o:p>
A tall and stately
girl, with sleepy brown eyes and the air of a duchess in the servants' hall,
bent forward and took a kindly interest in the conversation.
"Oh, have you
composed a varlse, Mr Saltzburg?" she asked with pleasant condescensio=
n.
"How interesting, really! Won't you play it for us?"
The sentiment of =
the
meeting seemed to be unanimous in favor of shelving work and listening to Mr
Saltzburg's waltz.
"Oh, Mr
Saltzburg, do!"
"Please!&quo=
t;
"Some one to=
ld
me it was a pipterino!"
"I cert'nly =
do
love waltzes!"
"Please, Mr
Saltzburg!"
Mr Saltzburg
obviously weakened. His fingers touched the keys irresolutely.
"But,
childrun!"
"I am sure it
would be a great pleasure to all of us," said the duchess graciously,
"if you would play it. There is nothing I enjoy more than a good
varlse."
Mr Saltzburg
capitulated. Like all musical directors he had in his leisure moments compo=
sed
the complete score of a musical play and spent much of his time waylaying
librettists on the Rialto and trying to lure them to his apartment to liste=
n to
it, with a view to business. The eternal tragedy of a musical director's li=
fe
is comparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has to assist
others to eat, Mr Saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and his soul revolted=
at
being compelled perpetually to rehearse and direct the inferior composition=
s of
other men. Far less persuasion than he had received today was usually requi=
red
to induce him to play the whole of his score.
"You wish
it?" he said. "Well, then! This waltz, you will understand, is the
theme of a musical romance which I have composed. It will be sung once in t=
he
first act by the heroine, then in the second act as a duet for heroine and
hero. I weave it into the finale of the second act, and we have an echo of =
it,
sung off stage, in the third act. What I play you now is the second-act due=
t.
The verse is longer. So! The male voice begins."
A pleasant time w=
as
had by all for ten minutes.
"Ah, but thi=
s is
not rehearsing, childrun!" cried Mr Saltzburg remorsefully at the end =
of
that period. "This is not business. Come now, the opening chorus of act
one, and please this time keep on the key. Before, it was sour, sour. Come!=
La-la-la
. . ."
"Mr
Thalzburg!"
"Miss
Trevor?"
"There was an
awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. I do wish . . ."
"Some other
time, some other time! Now we must work. Come! La-la-la . . ."
"I wish you
could have heard it, girls," said the cherub regretfully. "Honeth=
t,
it wath a lalapalootha!"
The pack broke in=
to
full cry.
"Oh, Mr
Saltzburg!"
"Please, Mr
Saltzburg!"
"Do play the
fox-trot, Mr Saltzburg!"
"If it is as
good as the varlse," said the duchess, stooping once more to the common
level, "I am sure it must be very good indeed." She powdered her
nose. "And one so rarely hears musicianly music nowadays, does one?&qu=
ot;
"Which
fox-trot?" asked Mr Saltzburg weakly.
"Play 'em
all!" decided a voice on the left.
"Yes, play '=
em
all," bayed the pack.
"I am sure t=
hat
that would be charming," agreed the duchess, replacing her powder-puff=
.
Mr Saltzburg play=
ed
'em all. This man by now seemed entirely lost to shame. The precious minutes
that belonged to his employers and should have been earmarked for "The
Rose of America" flitted by. The ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble,=
who
should have been absorbing and learning to deliver the melodies of Roland
Trevis and the lyrics of Otis Pilkington, lolled back in their seats. The
yellow-keyed piano rocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught. The proceedin=
gs
had begun to resemble not so much a rehearsal as a home evening, and gratef=
ul glances
were cast at the complacent cherub. She had, it was felt, shown tact and
discretion.
Pleasant conversa=
tion
began again.
". . . And I
walked a couple of blocks, and there was exactly the same model in Schwartz=
and
Gulderstein's window at twenty-six fifty . . ."
". . . He go=
t on
at Forty-second Street, and he was kinda fresh from the start. I could see =
he
was carrying a package. At Sixty-sixth he came sasshaying right down the car
and said 'Hello, patootie!' Well, I drew myself up . . ."
". . . 'Even=
if
you are my sister's husband,' I said to him. Oh, I suppose I got a temper. =
It
takes a lot to arouse it, y'know, but I c'n get pretty mad . . ."
". . . You d=
on't
know the half of it, dearie, you don't know the half of it! A one-piece bat=
hing
suit! Well, you could call it that, but the cop on the beach said it was mo=
re
like a baby's sock. And when . . ."
". . . So I =
said
'Listen, Izzy, that'll be about all from you! My father was a gentleman, th=
ough
I don't suppose you know what that means, and I'm not accustomed . . .'&quo=
t;
"Hey!"<= o:p>
A voice from the
neighborhood of the door had cut into the babble like a knife into butter; =
a rough,
rasping voice, loud and compelling, which caused the conversation of the
members of the ensemble to cease on the instant. Only Mr Saltzburg, now in a
perfect frenzy of musicianly fervor, continued to assault the decrepit pian=
o, unwitting
of an unsympathetic addition to his audience.
"What I play=
you
now is the laughing trio from my second act. It is a building number. It is
sung by tenor, principal comedian, and soubrette. On the second refrain four
girls will come out and two boys. The girls will dance with the two men, the
boys with the soubrette. So! On the encore, four more girls and two more bo=
ys. Third
encore, solo-dance for specialty dancer, all on stage beating time by clapp=
ing
their hands. On repeat, all sing refrain once more, and off-encore, the thr=
ee
principals and specialty dancer dance the dance with entire chorus. It is a
great building number, you understand. It is enough to make the success of =
any
musical play, but can I get a hearing? No! If I ask managers to listen to my
music, they are busy! If I beg them to give me a libretto to set, they laug=
h--ha!
ha!" Mr Saltzburg gave a spirited and lifelike representation of a man=
ager
laughing ha-ha when begged to disgorge a libretto. "Now I play it once
more!"
"Like hell y=
ou
do!" said the voice. "Say, what is this, anyway? A concert?"=
Mr Saltzburg swung
round on the music-stool, a startled and apprehensive man, and nearly fell =
off
it. The divine afflatus left him like air oozing from a punctured toy-ballo=
on,
and, like such a balloon, he seemed to grow suddenly limp and flat. He star=
ed
with fallen jaw at the new arrival.
Two men had enter=
ed
the room. One was the long Mr Pilkington. The other, who looked shorter and
stouter than he really was beside his giraffe-like companion, was a thickse=
t,
fleshy man in the early thirties with a blond, clean-shaven, double-chinned
face. He had smooth yellow hair, an unwholesome complexion, and light green
eyes, set close together. From the edge of the semi-circle about the piano,=
he
glared menacingly over the heads of the chorus at the unfortunate Mr Saltzb=
urg,
"Why aren't
these girls working?"
Mr Saltzburg, who=
had
risen nervously from his stool, backed away apprehensively from his gaze, a=
nd,
stumbling over the stool, sat down abruptly on the piano, producing a curio=
us
noise like Futurist music.
"I--We--Why,=
Mr
Goble . . ."
Mr Goble turned h=
is
green gaze on the concert audience, and spread discomfort as if it were
something liquid which he was spraying through a hose. The girls who were
nearest looked down flutteringly at their shoes: those further away conceal=
ed
themselves behind their neighbors. Even the duchess, who prided herself on
being the possessor of a stare of unrivalled haughtiness, before which the =
fresh
quailed and those who made breaks subsided in confusion, was unable to meet=
his
eyes: and the willowy friend of Izzy, for all her victories over that monar=
ch
of the hat-checks, bowed before it like a slim tree before a blizzard.
Only Jill returned
the manager's gaze. She was seated on the outer rim of the semi-circle, and=
she
stared frankly at Mr Goble. She had never seen anything like him before, an=
d he
fascinated her. This behavior on her part singled her out from the throng, =
and
Mr Goble concentrated his attention on her.
For some seconds =
he stood
looking at her; then, raising a stubby finger, he let his eye travel over t=
he
company, and seemed to be engrossed in some sort of mathematical calculatio=
n.
"Thirteen,&q=
uot;
he said at length. "I make it thirteen." He rounded on Mr Pilking=
ton.
"I told you we were going to have a chorus of twelve."
Mr Pilkington blu=
shed
and stumbled over his feet.
"Ah, yes . .=
.
yes," he murmured vaguely. "Yes!"
"Well, there=
are
thirteen here. Count 'em for yourself." He whipped round on Jill.
"What's your name? Who engaged you?"
A croaking sound =
from
the neighborhood of the ceiling indicated the clearing of Mr Pilkington's
throat.
"I--er--I
engaged Miss Mariner, Mr Goble."
"Oh, you eng=
aged
her?"
He stared again at
Jill. The inspection was long and lingering, and affected Jill with a sense=
of
being inadequately clothed. She returned the gaze as defiantly as she could,
but her heart was beating fast. She had never yet beer frightened of any ma=
n,
but there was something reptilian about this fat, yellow-haired individual =
which
disquieted her; much as cockroaches had done in her childhood. A momentary
thought flashed through her mind that it would be horrible to be touched by
him. He looked soft and glutinous.
"All
right," said Mr Goble at last, after what seemed to Jill many minutes.=
He
nodded to Mr Saltzburg. "Get on with it! And try working a little this
time! I don't hire you to give musical entertainments."
"Yes, Mr Gob=
le,
yes. I mean no, Mr Goble!"
"You can have
the Gotham stage this afternoon," said Mr Goble. "Call the rehear=
sal
for two sharp."
Outside the door,=
he
turned to Mr Pilkington.
"That was a =
fool
trick of yours, hiring that girl. Thirteen! I'd as soon walk under a ladder=
on
a Friday as open in New York with a chorus of thirteen. Well, it don't matt=
er.
We can fire one of 'em after we've opened on the road." He mused for a
moment. "Darned pretty girl, that!" he went on meditatively.
"Where did you get her?"
"She--ah--ca=
me
into the office, when you were out. She struck me as being essentially the =
type
we required for our ensemble, so I--er--engaged her. She--" Mr Pilking=
ton
gulped. "She is a charming, refined girl!"
"She's darned
pretty," admitted Mr Goble, and went on his way wrapped in thought, Mr
Pilkington following timorously. It was episodes like the one that had just
concluded which made Otis Pilkington wish that he possessed a little more
assertion. He regretted wistfully that he was not one of those men who can =
put
their hat on the side of their heads and shoot out their chins and say to t=
he
world "Well, what about it!" He was bearing the financial burden =
of
this production. If it should be a failure, his would be the loss. Yet some=
how
this coarse, rough person in front of him never seemed to allow him a word =
in
the executive policy of the piece. He treated him as a child. He domineered=
and
he shouted, and behaved as if he were in sole command. Mr Pilkington sighed=
. He
rather wished he had never gone into this undertaking.
Inside the room, =
Mr
Saltzburg wiped his forehead, spectacles, and his hands. He had the aspect =
of
one wakes from a dreadful dream.
"Childrun!&q=
uot;
he whispered brokenly. "Childrun! If yoll please, once more. Act One,
Opening Chorus. Come! La-la-la!"
"La-la-la!&q=
uot;
chanted the subdued members of the ensemble.
2.
By the time the t=
wo
halves of the company, ensemble and principals, melted into one complete wh=
ole,
the novelty of her new surroundings had worn off, and Jill was feeling that
there had never been a time when she had not been one of a theatrical troup=
e,
rehearsing. The pleasant social gatherings round Mr Saltzburg's piano gave =
way
after a few days to something far less agreeable and infinitely more strenu=
ous,
the breaking-in of the dances under the supervision of the famous Johnson
Miller. Johnson Miller was a little man with snow-white hair and the
india-rubber physique of a juvenile acrobat. Nobody knew actually how old he
was, but he certainly looked much too advanced in years to be capable of the
feats of endurance which he performed daily. He had the untiring enthusiasm=
of
a fox-terrier, and had bullied and scolded more companies along the rocky r=
oad
that leads to success than any half-dozen dance-directors in the country, in
spite of his handicap in being almost completely deaf. He had an almost
miraculous gift of picking up the melodies for which it was his business to
design dances, without apparently hearing them. He seemed to absorb them
through the pores. He had a blunt and arbitrary manner, and invariably spoke
his mind frankly and honestly--a habit which made him strangely popular in a
profession where the language of equivoque is cultivated almost as sedulous=
ly
as in the circles of international diplomacy. What Johnson Miller said to y=
our
face was official, not subject to revision as soon as your back was turned:=
and
people appreciated this.
Izzy's willowy fr=
iend
summed him up one evening when the ladies of the ensemble were changing the=
ir
practise-clothes after a particularly strenuous rehearsal, defending him
against the Southern girl, who complained that he made her tired.
"You bet he
makes you tired," she said. "So he does me. I'm losing my girlish
curves, and I'm so stiff I can't lace my shoes. But he knows his business a=
nd
he's on the level, which is more than you can say of most of these guys in =
the
show business."
"That's
right," agreed the Southern girl's blonde friend. "He does know h=
is
business. He's put over any amount of shows which would have flopped like d=
ogs
without him to stage the numbers."
The duchess yawne=
d.
Rehearsing always bored her, and she had not been greatly impressed by what=
she
had seen of "The Rose of America."
"One will be
greatly surprised if he can make a success of this show! I confess I find it
perfectly ridiculous."
"Ithn't it t=
he
limit, honetht!" said the cherub, arranging her golden hair at the mir=
ror.
"It maketh me thick! Why on earth is Ike putting it on?"
The girl who knew
everything--there is always one in every company--hastened to explain.
"I heard all
about that. Ike hasn't any of his own money in the thing. He's getting twen=
ty-five
per cent of the show for running it. The angel is the long fellow you see
jumping around. Pilkington his name is."
"Well, it'll
need to be Rockefeller later on," said the blonde.
"Oh, they'll=
get
thomebody down to fixth it after we've out on the road a couple of days,&qu=
ot;
said the cherub, optimistically. "They alwayth do. I've seen worse sho=
ws
than this turned into hits. All it wants ith a new book and lyrics and a
different thcore."
"And a new s=
et
of principals," said the red-headed Babe. "Did you ever see such a
bunch?"
The duchess, with
another tired sigh, arched her well-shaped eyebrows and studied the effect =
in
the mirror.
"One wonders
where they pick these persons up," she assented languidly. "They
remind me of a headline I saw in the paper this morning--'Tons of Hams Unfit
for Human Consumption.' Are any of you girls coming my way? I can give two =
or
three of you a lift in my limousine."
"Thorry, old
dear, and thanks ever so much," said the cherub, "but I instructed
Clarence, my man, to have the street-car waiting on the corner, and he'll be
tho upset if I'm not there."
Nelly had an
engagement to go and help one of the other girls buy a Spring suit, a solemn
rite which it is impossible to conduct by oneself: and Jill and the cherub
walked to the corner together. Jill had become very fond of the little thing
since rehearsals began. She reminded her of a London sparrow. She was so sm=
all
and perky and so absurdly able to take care of herself.
"Limouthine!=
"
snorted the cherub. The duchess' concluding speech evidently still rankled.
"She gives me a pain in the gizthard!"
"Hasn't she =
got
a limousine?" asked Jill.
"Of course s=
he
hasn't. She's engaged to be married to a demonstrator in the Speedwell Auto
Company, and he thneaks off when he can get away and gives her joy-rides.
That's all the limousine she's got. It beats me why girls in the show busin=
ess
are alwayth tho crazy to make themselves out vamps with a dozen millionaire=
s on
a string. If Mae wouldn't four-flush and act like the Belle of the Moulin
Rouge, she'd be the nithest girl you ever met. She's mad about the fellow s=
he's
engaged to, and wouldn't look at all the millionaires in New York if you
brought 'em to her on a tray. She's going to marry him as thoon as he's tha=
ved
enough to buy the furniture, and then she'll thettle down in Harlem thomewh=
ere
and cook and mind the baby and regularly be one of the lower middle classes.
All that's wrong with Mae ith that she's read Gingery Stories and thinkth
that's the way a girl has to act when she'th in the chorus."
"That's
funny," said Jill. "I should never have thought it. I swallowed t=
he
limousine whole."
The cherub looked=
at
her curiously. Jill puzzled her. Jill had, indeed, been the subject of much
private speculation among her colleagues.
"This is your
first show, ithn't it?" she asked.
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Thay, what =
are
you doing in the chorus, anyway?"
"Getting sco=
lded
by Mr Miller mostly, it seems to me."
"Thcolded by=
Mr
Miller! Why didn't you say 'bawled out by Johnny?' That'th what any of the =
retht
of us would have said."
"Well, I've
lived most of my life in England. You can't expect me to talk the language
yet."
"I thought y=
ou
were English. You've got an acthent like the fellow who plays the dude in t=
hith
show. Thay, why did you ever get into the show business?"
"Well . . .
well, why did you? Why does anybody?"
"Why did I? =
Oh,
I belong there. I'm a regular Broadway rat. I wouldn't be happy anywhere el=
the.
I was born in the show business. I've got two thithters in the two-a-day an=
d a
brother in thtock out in California and dad's one of the betht comedians on=
the
burlethque wheel. But any one can thee you're different. There's no reathon=
why
you should be bumming around in the chorus."
"But there i=
s.
I've no money, and I can't do anything to make it."
"Honetht?&qu=
ot;
"Honest.&quo=
t;
"That's
tough." The cherub pondered, her round eyes searching Jill's face.
"Why don't you get married?"
Jill laughed.
"Nobody's as=
ked
me."
"Somebody th=
oon
will. At least, if he's on the level, and I think he is. You can generally =
tell
by the look of a guy, and, if you ask me, friend Pilkington's got the licen=
se
in hith pocket and the ring all ordered and everything."
"Pilkington!=
"
cried Jill, aghast.
She remembered
certain occasions during rehearsals, when, while the chorus idled in the bo=
dy
of the theatre and listened to the principals working at their scenes, the
elongated Pilkington had suddenly appeared in the next seat and conversed
sheepishly in a low voice. Could this be love? If so, it was a terrible
nuisance. Jill had had her experience in London of enamoured young men who,
running true to national form, declined to know when they were beaten, and =
she
had not enjoyed the process of cooling their ardor. She had a kind heart, a=
nd
it distressed her to give pain. It also got on her nerves to be dogged by
stricken males who tried to catch her eye in order that she might observe t=
heir
broken condition. She recalled one house-party in Wales where it rained all=
the
time and she had been cooped up with a victim who kept popping out from obs=
cure
corners and beginning all his pleas with the words "I say, you know . =
. .
!" She trusted that Otis Pilkington was not proposing to conduct a woo=
ing
on those lines. Yet he had certainly developed a sinister habit of popping =
out
at the theatre. On several occasions he had startled her by appearing at her
side as if he had come up out of a trap.
"Oh, no!&quo=
t;
cried Jill.
"Oh, yeth!&q=
uot;
insisted the cherub, waving imperiously to an approaching street-car.
"Well, I must be getting uptown. I've got a date. Thee you later."=
;
"I'm sure yo=
u're
mistaken."
"I'm not.&qu=
ot;
"But what ma=
kes
you think so?"
The cherub placed=
a
hand on the rail of the car, preparatory to swinging herself on board.
"Well, for o=
ne
thing," she said, "he'th been stalking you like an Indian ever si=
nce
we left the theatre! Look behind you. Good-bye, honey. Thend me a piece of =
the
cake!"
The street-car bo=
re
her away. The last that Jill saw of her was a wide and amiable grin. Then,
turning, she beheld the snake-like form of Otis Pilkington towering at her
side.
Mr Pilkington see=
med
nervous but determined. His face was half hidden by the silk scarf that muf=
fled
his throat, for he was careful of his health and had a fancied tendency to
bronchial trouble. Above the scarf a pair of mild eyes gazed down at Jill
through their tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. It was hopeless for Jill to =
try
to tell herself that the tender gleam behind the glass was not the love-lig=
ht
in Otis Pilkington's eyes. The truth was too obvious.
"Good evenin=
g,
Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington, his voice sounding muffled and far =
away
through the scarf. "Are you going up-town?"
"No,
down-town," said Jill quickly.
"So am I,&qu=
ot;
said Mr Pilkington.
Jill felt annoyed,
but helpless. It is difficult to bid a tactful farewell to a man who has st=
ated
his intention of going in the same direction as yourself. There was nothing=
for
it but to accept the unspoken offer of Otis Pilkington's escort. They began=
to
walk down Broadway together.
"I suppose y=
ou
are tired after the rehearsal?" enquired Mr Pilkington in his precise
voice. He always spoke as if he were weighing each word and clipping it off=
a
reel.
"A little. Mr
Miller is very enthusiastic."
"About the
piece?" Her companion spoke eagerly.
"No; I meant
hard-working."
"Has he said
anything about the piece?"
"Well, no. Y=
ou
see, he doesn't confide in us a great deal, except to tell us his opinion of
the way we do the steps. I don't think we impress him very much, to judge f=
rom
what he says. But the girls say he always tells every chorus he rehearses t=
hat
it is the worst he ever had anything to do with."
"And the
chor--the--er--ladies of the ensemble? What do they think of the piece?&quo=
t;
"Well, I don=
't
suppose they are very good judges, are they?" said Jill diplomatically=
.
"You mean th=
ey
do not like it?"
"Some of them
don't seem quite to understand it."
Mr Pilkington was
silent for a moment.
"I am beginn=
ing
to wonder myself whether it may not be a little over the heads of the
public," he said ruefully. "When it was first performed . . .&quo=
t;
"Oh, has it =
been
done before?"
"By amateurs,
yes, at the house of my aunt, Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, at Newport, last Sum=
mer.
In aid of the Armenian orphans. It was extraordinarily well received on that
occasion. We nearly made our expenses. It was such a success that--I feel I=
can
confide in you. I should not like this repeated to your--your--the other
ladies--it was such a success that, against my aunt's advice, I decided to =
give
it a Broadway production. Between ourselves, I am shouldering practically a=
ll
the expenses of the undertaking. Mr Goble has nothing to do with the financ=
ial
arrangements of 'The Rose of America.' Those are entirely in my hands. Mr
Goble, in return for a share in the profits, is giving us the benefit of his
experience as regards the management and booking of the piece. I have always
had the greatest faith in it. Trevis and I wrote it when we were in college
together, and all our friends thought it exceptionally brilliant. My aunt, =
as I
say, was opposed to the venture. She holds the view that I am not a good ma=
n of
business. In a sense, perhaps, she is right. Temperamentally, no doubt, I am
more the artist. But I was determined to show the public something superior=
to
the so-called Broadway successes, which are so terribly trashy. Unfortunate=
ly,
I am beginning to wonder whether it is possible, with the crude type of act=
or
at one's disposal in this country, to give a really adequate performance of
such a play as 'The Rose of America.' These people seem to miss the spirit =
of
the piece, its subtle topsy-turvy humor, its delicate whimsicality. This af=
ternoon,"
Mr Pilkington choked. "This afternoon I happened to overhear two of the
principals, who were not aware that I was within earshot, discussing the pl=
ay.
One of them--these people express themselves curiously--one of them said th=
at
he thought it a quince: and the other described it as a piece of gorgonzola
cheese! That is not the spirit that wins success!"
Jill was feeling
immensely relieved. After all, it seemed, this poor young man merely wanted
sympathy, not romance. She had been mistaken, she felt, about that gleam in=
his
eyes. It was not the love-light: it was the light of panic. He was the auth=
or
of the play. He had sunk a large sum of money in its production, he had hea=
rd
people criticizing it harshly, and he was suffering from what her colleague=
s in
the chorus would have called cold feet. It was such a human emotion and he
seemed so like an overgrown child pleading to be comforted that her heart
warmed to him. Relief melted her defences. And when, on their arrival at
Thirty-fourth Street Mr Pilkington suggested that she partake of a cup of t=
ea
at his apartment, which was only a couple of blocks away off Madison Avenue,
she accepted the invitation without hesitating.
On the way to his
apartment Mr Pilkington continued in the minor key. He was a great deal more
communicative than she herself would have been to such a comparative strang=
er
as she was, but she knew that men were often like this. Over in London, she=
had
frequently been made the recipient of the most intimate confidences by young
men whom she had met for the first time the same evening at a dance. She had
been forced to believe that there was something about her personality that =
acted
on a certain type of man like the crack in the dam, setting loose the surgi=
ng
flood of their eloquence. To this class Otis Pilkington evidently belonged:
for, once started, he withheld nothing.
"It isn't th=
at
I'm dependent on Aunt Olive or anything like that," he vouchsafed, as =
he
stirred the tea in his Japanese-print hung studio. "But you know how it
is. Aunt Olive is in a position to make it very unpleasant for me if I do
anything foolish. At present, I have reason to know that she intends to lea=
ve
me practically all that she possesses. Millions!" said Mr Pilkington,
handing Jill a cup. "I assure you, millions! But there is a hard
commercial strain in her. It would have the most prejudicial effect upon her
if, especially after she had expressly warned me against it, I were to lose=
a
great deal of money over this production. She is always complaining that I =
am
not a business man like my late uncle. Mr Waddesleigh Peagrim made a fortun=
e in
smoked hams." Mr Pilkington looked at the Japanese prints, and shudder=
ed
slightly. "Right up to the time of his death he was urging me to go in=
to
the business. I could not have endured it. But, when I heard those two men
discussing the play, I almost wished that I had done so."
Jill was now
completely disarmed. She would almost have patted this unfortunate young ma=
n's
head, if she could have reached it.
"I shouldn't
worry about the piece," she said. "I've read somewhere or heard
somewhere that it's the surest sign of a success when actors don't like a
play."
Mr Pilkington drew
his chair an imperceptible inch nearer.
"How sympath=
etic
you are!"
Jill perceived wi=
th
chagrin that she had been mistaken after all. It was the love-light. The
tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles sprayed it all over her like a couple of
searchlights. Otis Pilkington was looking exactly like a sheep, and she knew
from past experience that that was the infallible sign. When young men look=
ed
like that, it was time to go.
"I'm afraid I
must be off," she said. "Thank you so much for giving me tea. I
shouldn't be a bit afraid about the play. I'm sure it's going to be splendi=
d.
Good-bye."
"You aren't
going already?"
"I must. I'm
very late as it is. I promised . . ."
Whatever fiction =
Jill
might have invented to the detriment of her soul was interrupted by a ring =
at
the bell. The steps of Mr Pilkington's Japanese servant crossing the hall c=
ame
faintly to the sitting-room.
"Mr Pilkingt=
on
in?"
Otis Pilkington
motioned pleadingly to Jill.
"Don't go!&q=
uot;
he urged. "It's only a man I know. He has probably come to remind me t=
hat
I am dining with him tonight. He won't stay a minute. Please don't go."=
;
Jill sat down. She
had no intention of going now. The cheery voice at the front door had been =
the
cheery voice of her long-lost uncle, Major Christopher Selby.
1.
Uncle Chris walked
breezily into the room, flicking a jaunty glove. He stopped short on seeing
that Mr Pilkington was not alone.
"Oh, I beg y=
our
pardon! I understood . . ." He peered at Jill uncertainly. Mr Pilkingt=
on
affected a dim, artistic lighting-system in his studio, and people who ente=
red
from the great outdoors generally had to take time to accustom their eyes to
it. "If you're engaged . . ."
"Er--allow m=
e .
. . Miss Mariner . . . Major Selby."
"Hullo, Uncle
Chris!" said Jill.
"God bless my
soul!" ejaculated that startled gentleman adventurer, and collapsed on=
to a
settee as if his legs had been mown from under him.
"I've been
looking for you all over New York," said Jill.
Mr Pilkington fou=
nd
himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation.
"Uncle
Chris?" he said with a note of feeble enquiry in his voice.
"Major Selby=
is
my uncle."
"Are you
sure?" said Mr Pilkington. "I mean . . ."
Not being able to
ascertain, after a moment's self-examination, what he did mean, he relapsed
into silence.
"Whatever are
you doing here?" asked Uncle Chris.
"I've been
having tea with Mr Pilkington."
"But . . . b=
ut
why Mr Pilkington?"
"Well, he
invited me."
"But how do =
you
know him?"
"We met at t=
he
theatre."
"Theatre?&qu=
ot;
Otis Pilkington
recovered his power of speech.
"Miss Marine=
r is
rehearsing with a little play in which I am interested," he explained.=
Uncle Chris half =
rose
from the settee. He blinked twice in rapid succession. Jill had never seen =
him
so shaken from his customary poise.
"Don't tell =
me
you have gone on the stage, Jill!"
"I have. I'm=
in
the chorus . . ."
"Ensemble,&q=
uot;
corrected Mr Pilkington softly.
"I'm in the
ensemble of a piece called 'The Rose of America.' We've been rehearsing for
ever so long."
Uncle Chris diges= ted this information in silence for a moment. He pulled at his short mustache.<= o:p>
"Why, of
course!" he said at length. Jill, who know him so well, could tell by =
the
restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he was himself again. He had d=
ealt
with this situation in his mind and was prepared to cope with it. The surmi=
se
was confirmed the next instant when he rose and stationed himself in front =
of
the fire. Mr Pilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he
had found a studio apartment with an open fireplace. Uncle Chris spread his
legs and expanded his chest. "Of course," he said. "I rememb=
er now
that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of going on the stag=
e.
My niece," explained Uncle Chris to the attentive Mr Pilkington,
"came over from England on a later boat. I was not expecting her for s=
ome
weeks. Hence my surprise at meeting her here. Of course. You told me that y=
ou
intended to go on the stage, and I strongly recommended you to begin at the
bottom of the ladder and learn the ground-work thoroughly before you attemp=
ted
higher flights."
"Oh, that was
it?" said Mr Pilkington. He had been wondering.
"There is no
finer training," resumed Uncle Chris, completely at his ease once more,
"than the chorus. How many of the best-known actresses in America bega=
n in
that way! Dozens. Dozens. If I were giving advice to any young girl with
theatrical aspirations, I should say 'Begin in the chorus!' On the other
hand," he proceeded, turning to Pilkington, "I think it would be =
just
as well if you would not mention the fact of my niece being in that positio=
n to
Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim. She might not understand."
"Exactly,&qu=
ot;
assented Mr Pilkington.
"The term
'chorus' . . ."
"I dislike it
intensely myself."
"It suggests=
. .
."
"Precisely.&=
quot;
Uncle Chris infla=
ted
his chest again, well satisfied.
"Capital!&qu=
ot;
he said. "Well, I only dropped in to remind you, my boy, that you and =
your
aunt are dining with me tonight. I was afraid a busy man like you might
forget."
"I was looki=
ng
forward to it," said Mr Pilkington, charmed at the description.
"You remember
the address? Nine East Forty-First Street. I have moved, you remember."=
;
"So that was=
why
I couldn't find you at the other place," said Jill. "The man at t=
he
door said he had never heard of you."
"Stupid idio=
t!"
said Uncle Chris testily. "These New York hall-porters are recruited
entirely from homes for the feeble-minded. I suppose he was a new man. Well,
Pilkington, my boy, I shall expect you at seven o'clock. Goodbye till then.
Come, Jill."
"Good-bye, M=
r Pilkington,"
said Jill.
"Good-bye for
the present, Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington, bending down to take h=
er
hand. The tortoiseshell spectacles shot a last soft beam at her.
As the front door
closed behind them, Uncle Chris heaved a sigh of relief.
"Whew! I thi=
nk I
handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! A certain amount of diploma=
cy,
I think!"
"If you
mean," said Jill severely, "that you told some disgraceful fibs .=
.
."
"Fibs, my
dear,--or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapely clay of truth--=
are
the . . . how shall I put it? . . . Well, anyway, they come in dashed handy=
. It
would never have done for Mrs Peagrim to have found out that you were in the
chorus. If she discovered that my niece was in the chorus, she would infall=
ibly
suspect me of being an adventurer. And while," said Uncle Chris
meditatively, "of course I am, it is nice to have one's little secrets.
The good lady has had a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honorab=
le
but maligned profession ever since our long young friend back there was sued
for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in his sophomore yea=
r at
college. We all have our prejudices. That is hers. However, I think we may =
rely
on our friend to say nothing about the matter . . . But why did you do it? =
My
dear child, whatever induced you to take such a step?"
Jill laughed.
"That's
practically what Mr Miller said to me when we were rehearsing one of the da=
nces
this afternoon, only he put it differently." She linked her arm in his.
"What else could I do? I was alone in New York with the remains of that
twenty dollars you sent me and no more in sight."
"But why did=
n't
you stay down at Brookport with your Uncle Elmer?"
"Have you ev=
er
seen my Uncle Elmer?"
"No. Curious=
ly
enough, I never have."
"If you had,=
you
wouldn't ask. Brookport! Ugh! I left when they tried to get me to understudy
the hired man, who had resigned."
"What!"=
"Yes, they g= ot tired of supporting me in the state to which I was accustomed--I don't blame them!--so they began to find ways of making me useful about the home. I did= n't mind reading to Aunt Julia, and I could just stand taking Tibby for walks. = But, when it came to shoveling snow, I softly and silently vanished away."<= o:p>
"But I can't
understand all this. I suggested to your uncle--diplomatically--that you had
large private means."
"I know you =
did.
And he spent all his time showing me over houses and telling me I could have
them for a hundred thousand dollars cash down." Jill bubbled. "You
should have seen his face when I told him that twenty dollars was all I had=
in
the world!"
"You didn't =
tell
him that!"
"I did."=
;
Uncle Chris shook=
his
head, like an indulgent father disappointed in a favorite child.
"You're a de=
ar
girl, Jill, but really you do seem totally lacking in . . . how shall I put
it?--finesse. Your mother was just the same. A sweet woman, but with no
diplomacy, no notion of handling a situation. I remember her as a child giv=
ing
me away hopelessly on one occasion after we had been at the jam-cupboard. S=
he
did not mean any harm, but she was constitutionally incapable of a tactful
negative at the right time." Uncle Chris brooded for a moment on the p=
ast.
"Oh, well, it's a very fine trait, no doubt, though inconvenient. I do=
n't blame
you for leaving Brookport if you weren't happy there. But I wish you had
consulted me before going on the stage."
"Shall I str=
ike
this man?" asked Jill of the world at large. "How could I consult
you? My darling, precious uncle, don't you realize that you had vanished in=
to
thin air, leaving me penniless? I had to do something. And, now that we are=
on
the subject, perhaps you will explain your movements. Why did you write to =
me
from that place on Fifty-Seventh Street if you weren't there?"
Uncle Chris clear=
ed
his throat.
"In a sense =
. .
. when I wrote . . . I was there."
"I suppose t=
hat
means something, but it's beyond me. I'm not nearly as intelligent as you
think, Uncle Chris, so you'll have to explain."
"Well, it was
this way, my dear. I was in a peculiar position you must remember. I had ma=
de a
number of wealthy friends on the boat and it is possible that--unwittingly-=
-I
have them the impression that I was as comfortably off as themselves. At any
rate, that is the impression they gathered, and it hardly seemed expedient =
to
correct it. For it is a deplorable trait in the character of the majority o=
f rich
people that they only--er--expand,--they only show the best and most
companionable side of themselves to those whom they imagine to be as wealth=
y as
they are. Well, of course, while one was on the boat, the fact that I was
sailing under what a purist might have termed false colors did not matter. =
The
problem was how to keep up the--er--innocent deception after we had reached=
New
York. A woman like Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim--a ghastly creature, my dear, all
front teeth and exuberance, but richer than the Sub-Treasury--looks askance=
at
a man, however agreeable, if he endeavors to cement a friendship begun on b=
oard
ship from a cheap boarding-house on Amsterdam Avenue. It was imperative tha=
t I
should find something in the nature of what I might call a suitable base of
operations. Fortune played into my hands. One of the first men I met in New
York was an old soldier-servant of mine, to whom I had been able to do some=
kindnesses
in the old days. In fact--it shows how bread cast upon the waters returns t=
o us
after many days--it was with the assistance of a small loan from me that he=
was
enabled to emigrate to America. Well, I met this man, and, after a short
conversation, he revealed the fact that he was the hall-porter at that
apartment-house which you visited, the one on Fifty-Seventh Street. At this
time of the year, I knew, many wealthy people go south, to Florida and the
Carolinas, and it occurred to me that there might be a vacant apartment in =
his building.
There was. I took it."
"But how on earth could you afford to pay for an apartment in a place like that?"<= o:p>
Uncle Chris cough=
ed.
"I didn't sa=
y I
paid for it. I said I took it. That is, as one might say, the point of my
story. My old friend, grateful for favors received and wishing to do me a g=
ood
turn consented to become my accomplice in another--er--innocent deception. I
gave my friends the address and telephone number of the apartment-house, li=
ving
the while myself in surroundings of a somewhat humbler and less expensive c=
haracter.
I called every morning for letters. If anybody rang me up on the telephone,=
the
admirable man answered in the capacity of my servant, took a message, and
relayed it on to me at my boarding-house. If anybody called, he merely said
that I was out. There wasn't a flaw in the whole scheme, my dear, and its c=
hief
merit was its beautiful simplicity."
"Then what m=
ade
you give it up? Conscience?"
"Conscience
never made me give up anything," said Uncle Chris firmly. "No, th=
ere
were a hundred chances to one against anything going wrong, and it was the
hundredth that happened. When you have been in New York longer, you will
realize that one peculiarity of the place is that the working-classes are i=
n a
constant state of flux. On Monday you meet a plumber. Ah! you say, A plumbe=
r!
Capital! On the following Thursday you meet him again, and he is a
car-conductor. Next week he will be squirting soda in a drug-store. It's the
fault of these dashed magazines, with their advertisements of correspondence
courses--Are You Earning All You Should?--Write To Us and Learn Chicken-Far=
ming
By Mail . . . It puts wrong ideas into the fellows' heads. It unsettles the=
m.
It was so in this case. Everything was going swimmingly, when my man sudden=
ly
conceived the idea that destiny had intended him for a chauffeur-gardener, =
and
he threw up his position!"
"Leaving you
homeless!"
"As you say,
homeless--temporarily. But, fortunately,--I have been amazingly lucky all
through; it really does seem as if you cannot keep a good man down--fortuna=
tely
my friend had a friend who was janitor at a place on East Forty-First Stree=
t,
and by a miracle of luck the only apartment in the building was empty. It i=
s an
office-building, but, like some of these places, it has one small bachelor's
apartment on the top floor."
"And you are=
the
small bachelor?"
"Precisely. =
My
friend explained matters to his friend--a few financial details were
satisfactorily arranged--and here I am, perfectly happy with the cosiest li=
ttle
place in the world, rent free. I am even better off than I was before, as a
matter of fact, for my new ally's wife is an excellent cook, and I have been
enabled to give one or two very pleasant dinners at my new home. It lends v=
erisimilitude
to the thing if you can entertain a little. If you are never in when people
call, they begin to wonder. I am giving dinner to your friend Pilkington and
Mrs Peagrim there tonight. Homey, delightful, and infinitely cheaper than a
restaurant."
"And what wi=
ll
you do when the real owner of the place walks in in the middle of dinner?&q=
uot;
"Out of the
question. The janitor informs me that he left for England some weeks ago,
intending to make a stay of several months."
"Well, you
certainly think of everything."
"Whatever
success I may have achieved," replied Uncle Chris, with the dignity of=
a
Captain of Industry confiding in an interviewer, "I attribute to always
thinking of everything."
Jill gurgled with
laughter. There was that about her uncle which always acted on her moral se=
nse
like an opiate, lulling it to sleep and preventing it from rising up and
becoming critical. If he had stolen a watch and chain, he would somehow have
succeeded in convincing her that he had acted for the best under the dictat=
es
of a benevolent altruism.
"What success
have you achieved?" she asked, interested. "When you left me, you
were on your way to find a fortune. Did you find it?"
"I have not
actually placed my hands upon it yet," admitted Uncle Chris. "But=
it
is hovering in the air all round me. I can hear the beating of the wings of=
the
dollar-bills as they flutter to and fro, almost within reach. Sooner or lat=
er I
shall grab them. I never forget, my dear, that I have a task before me,--to
restore to you the money of which I deprived you. Some day--be sure--I shal=
l do
it. Some day you will receive a letter from me, containing a large sum--fiv=
e thousand--ten
thousand--twenty thousand--whatever it may be, with the simple words 'First
Instalment'." He repeated the phrase, as if it pleased him. "Firs=
t Instalment!"
Jill hugged his a=
rm.
She was in the mood in which she used to listen to him ages ago telling her
fairy stories.
"Go on!"
she cried. "Go on! It's wonderful! Once upon a time Uncle Chris was
walking along Fifth Avenue, when he happened to meet a poor old woman gathe=
ring
sticks for firewood. She looked so old and tired that he was sorry for her,=
so
he gave her ten cents which he had borrowed from the janitor, and suddenly =
she
turned into a beautiful girl and said 'I am a fairy! In return for your
kindness I grant you three wishes!' And Uncle Chris thought for a moment, a=
nd
said, 'I want twenty thousand dollars to send to Jill!' And the fairy said,=
'It
shall be attended to. And the next article?'"
"It is all v=
ery
well to joke," protested Uncle Chris, pained by this flippancy, "=
but
let me tell you that I shall not require magic assistance to become a rich =
man.
Do you realize that at houses like Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's I am meeting m=
en
all the time who have only to say one little word to make me a millionaire?
They are fat, gray men with fishy eyes and large waistcoats, and they sit
smoking cigars and brooding on what they are going to do to the market next
day. If I were a mind-reader I could have made a dozen fortunes by now. I s=
at opposite
that old pirate, Bruce Bishop, for over an hour the very day before he and =
his
gang sent Consolidated Pea-Nuts down twenty points! If I had known what was=
in
the wind, I doubt if I could have restrained myself from choking his intent=
ions
out of the fellow. Well, what I am trying to point out is that one of these
days one of these old oysters will have a fleeting moment of human pity and=
disgorge
some tip on which I can act. It is that reflection that keeps me so constan=
tly
at Mrs Peagrim's house." Uncle Chris shivered slightly. "A fearso=
me
woman, my dear! Weighs a hundred and eighty pounds and as skittish as a you=
ng
lamb in springtime! She makes me dance with her!" Uncle Chris' lips
quivered in a spasm of pain, and he was silent for a moment. "Thank he=
aven
I was once a footballer!" he said reverently.
"But what do=
you
live on?" asked Jill. "I know you are going to be a millionaire n=
ext
Tuesday week, but how are you getting along in the meantime?"
Uncle Chris cough=
ed.
"Well, as
regards actual living expenses, I have managed by a shrewd business stroke =
to
acquire a small but sufficient income. I live in a boarding-house--true--bu=
t I
contrive to keep the wolf away from its door,--which, by the by, badly need=
s a
lick of paint. Have you ever heard of Nervino?"
"I don't thi=
nk
so. It sounds like a patent medicine."
"It is a pat=
ent
medicine." Uncle Chris stopped and looked anxiously at her. "Jill,
you're looking pale, my dear."
"Am I? We had
rather a tiring rehearsal."
"Are you
sure," said Uncle Chris seriously, "that it is only that? Are you
sure that your vitality has not become generally lowered by the fierce rush=
of
metropolitan life? Are you aware of the things that can happen to you if you
allow the red corpuscles of your blood to become devitalised? I had a frien=
d .
. ."
"Stop! You're
scaring me to death!"
Uncle Chris gave =
his
mustache a satisfied twirl. "Just what I meant to do, my dear. And, wh=
en I
had scared you sufficiently--you wouldn't wait for the story of my consumpt=
ive
friend! Pity! It's one of my best!--I should have mentioned that I had been
having much the same trouble myself until lately, but the other day I happe=
ned
to try Nervino, the great specific . . . I was giving you an illustration o=
f myself
in action, my dear. I went to these Nervino people--happened to see one of
their posters and got the idea in a flash--I went to them and said, 'Here a=
m I,
a presentable man of persuasive manners and a large acquaintance among the
leaders of New York Society. What would it be worth to you to have me hint =
from
time to time at dinner parties and so forth that Nervino is the rich man's
panacea?' I put the thing lucidly to them. I said, 'No doubt you have a
thousand agents in the city, but have you one who does not look like an age=
nt and
won't talk like an agent? Have you one who is inside the houses of the weal=
thy,
at their very dinner-tables, instead of being on the front step, trying to =
hold
the door open with his foot? That is the point you have to consider.' They =
saw
the idea at once. We arranged terms--not as generous as I could wish, perha=
ps,
but quite ample. I receive a tolerably satisfactory salary each week, and in
return I spread the good word about Nervino in the gilded palaces of the ri=
ch. Those
are the people to go for, Jill. They have been so busy wrenching money away
from the widow and the orphan that they haven't had time to look after their
health. You catch one of them after dinner, just as he is wondering if he w=
as
really wise in taking two helpings of the lobster Newburg, and he is clay i=
n your
hands. I draw my chair up to his and become sympathetic and say that I had =
precisely
the same trouble myself until recently and mention a dear old friend of mine
who died of indigestion, and gradually lead the conversation round to Nervi=
no.
I don't force it on them. I don't even ask them to try it. I merely point to
myself, rosy with health, and say that I owe everything to it, and the thin=
g is
done. They thank me profusely and scribble the name down on their shirt-cuf=
fs.
And there your are! I don't suppose," said Uncle Chris philosophically,
"that the stuff can do them any actual harm."
They had come to =
the
corner of Forty-first Street. Uncle Chris felt in his pocket and produced a
key.
"If you want=
to
go and take a look at my little nest, you can let yourself in. It's on the
twenty-second floor. Don't fail to go out on the roof and look at the view.
It's worth seeing. It will give you some idea of the size of the city. A
wonderful, amazing city, my dear, full of people who need Nervino. I shall =
go
on and drop in at the club for half an hour. They have given me a fortnight=
's
card at the Avenue. Capital place. Here's the key."
Jill turned down
Forty-first Street, and came to a mammoth structure of steel and stone which
dwarfed the modest brown houses beside it into nothingness. It was curious =
to
think of a private apartment nestling on the summit of this mountain. She w=
ent
in, and the elevator shot her giddily upwards to the twenty-second floor. S=
he found
herself facing a short flight of stone steps, ending in a door. She mounted=
the
steps, tried the key, and, turning it, entered a hall-way. Proceeding down =
the
passage, she reached a sitting-room.
It was a small ro=
om,
but furnished with a solid comfort which soothed her. For the first time si=
nce
she had arrived in New York, she had the sense of being miles away from the
noise and bustle of the city. There was a complete and restful silence. She=
was
alone in a nest of books and deep chairs, on which a large grandfather-clock
looked down with that wide-faced benevolence peculiar to its kind. So peace=
ful was
this eyrie, perched high up above the clamor and rattle of civilization, th=
at
every nerve in her body seemed to relax in a delicious content. It was like
being in Peter Pan's house in the tree-tops.
2.
Jill possessed in=
an
unusual degree that instinct for exploration which is implanted in most of =
us.
She was frankly inquisitive, and could never be two minutes in a strange ro=
om
without making a tour of it and examining its books, pictures, and photogra=
phs.
Almost at once she began to prowl.
The mantelpiece w=
as
her first objective. She always made for other people's mantelpieces, for
there, more than anywhere else, is the character of a proprietor revealed. =
This
mantelpiece was sprinkled with photographs, large, small, framed and unfram=
ed.
In the center of it, standing all alone and looking curiously out of place
among its large neighbors, was a little snapshot.
It was dark by the
mantelpiece. Jill took the photograph, to the window, where the fading light
could fall on it. Why, she could not have said, but the thing interested he=
r.
There was mystery about it. It seemed in itself so insignificant to have the
place of honor.
The snapshot had
evidently been taken by an amateur, but it was one of those lucky successes
which happen at rare intervals to amateur photographers to encourage them to
proceed with their hobby. It showed a small girl in a white dress cut short
above slim, black legs, standing in the porch of an old house, one hand
swinging a sunbonnet, the other patting an Irish terrier which had planted =
its front
paws against her waist and was looking up into her face with that grave
melancholy characteristic of Irish terriers. The sunlight was evidently str=
ong,
for the child's face was puckered in a twisted though engaging grin. Jill's
first thought was "What a jolly kid!" And then, with a leaping of=
the
heart that seemed to send something big and choking into her throat, she saw
that it was a photograph of herself.
With a swooping h=
ound
memory raced hack over the years. She could feel the hot sun on her face, h=
ear
the anxious voice of Freddie Rooke--then fourteen and for the first time the
owner of a camera--imploring her to stand just like that because he wouldn'=
t be
half a minute only some rotten thing had stuck or something. Then the sharp
click, the doubtful assurance of Freddie that he thought it was all right i=
f he
hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case she might expect to appea=
r in
combination with a cow which he had snapped on his way to the house), and t=
he
relieved disappearance of Pat, the terrier, who didn't understand photograp=
hy.
How many years ago had that been? She could not remember. But Freddie had g=
rown
to long-legged manhood, she to an age of discretion and full-length frocks,=
Pat
had died, the old house was inhabited by strangers . . . and here was the
silent record of that sun-lit afternoon, three thousand miles away from the
English garden in which it had come into existence.
The shadows deepe=
ned.
The top of the great building swayed gently, causing the pendulum of the
grandfather-clock to knock against the sides of its wooden case. Jill start=
ed.
The noise, coming after the dead silence, frightened her till she realized =
what
it was. She had a nervous feeling of not being alone. It was as if the shad=
ows
held goblins that peered out at the intruder. She darted to the mantelpiece=
and
replaced the photograph. She felt like some heroine of a fairy-story meddli=
ng
with the contents of the giant's castle. Soon there would come the sound of=
a
great footstep, thud--thud . . .
Thud.
Jill's heart gave
another leap. She was perfectly sure she had heard a sound. It had been just
like the banging of a door. She braced herself, listening, every muscle ten=
se.
And then, cleaving the stillness, came a voice from down the passage--
"Just see t=
hem
Pullman porters, Dolle=
d up
with scented waters Bough=
t with
their dimes and quarters! =
See,
here they come! Here they come!"
For an instant Ji=
ll
could not have said whether she was relieved or more frightened than ever.
True, that numbing sense of the uncanny had ceased to grip her, for Reason =
told
her that spectres do not sing rag-time songs. On the other hand, owners of
apartments do, and she would almost as readily have faced a spectre as the
owner of this apartment. Dizzily, she wandered how in the world she was to
explain her presence. Suppose he turned out to be some awful, choleric pers=
on who
would listen to no explanations.
"Oh, see th=
ose
starched-up collars! Hark how their captain
hollers =
'Keep
time! Keep time!' It's =
worth
a thousand dollars To see
those tip-collectors . . ."
Very near now. Al=
most
at the door.
"Those
upper-berth inspectors, Those
Pullman porters on parade!"
A dim, shapeless
figure in the black of the doorway, scrabbling of fingers on the wall.
"Where are y=
ou,
dammit?" said the voice, apparently addressing the electric-light swit=
ch.
Jill shrank back,
desperate fingers pressing deep into the back of an arm-chair. Light flashed
from the wall at her side. And there, in the doorway, stood Wally Mason in =
his
shirt-sleeves.
1.
In these days of
rapid movement, when existence has become little more than a series of shoc=
ks
of varying intensity, astonishment is the shortest-lived of all the emotion=
s.
The human brain has trained itself to elasticity and recovers its balance in
the presence of the unforeseen with a speed almost miraculous. The man who =
says
'I am surprised!' really means 'I was surprised a moment ago, but now I have
adjusted myself to the situation.' There was an instant in which Jill looke=
d at
Wally and Wally at Jill with the eye of total amazement, and then, almost
simultaneously, each began--the process was sub-conscious--to regard this
meeting not as an isolated and inexplicable event, but as something resulti=
ng
from a perfectly logical chain of circumstances. Jill perceived that the
presence in the apartment of that snap-shot of herself should have prepared=
her
for the discovery that the place belonged to someone who had known her as a
child, and that there was no reason for her to be stunned by the fact that =
this
someone was Wally Mason. Wally, on his side, knew that Jill was in New York;
and had already decided, erroneously, that she had found his address in the
telephone directory and was paying an ordinary call. It was, perhaps, a lit=
tle
unusual that she should have got into the place without ringing the front d=
oor
bell and that she should be in his sitting-room in the dark, but these were
minor aspects of the matter. To the main fact, that here she was, he had ad=
justed
his mind, and, while there was surprise in his voice when he finally spoke,=
it
was not the surprise of one who suspects himself of seeing visions.
"Hello!"=
; he
said.
"Hullo!"
said Jill.
It was not a very
exalted note on which to pitch the conversation, but it had the merit of gi=
ving
each of them a little more time to collect themselves.
"This is . .=
. I
wasn't expecting you!" said Wally.
"I wasn't
expecting you!" said Jill.
There was another
pause, in which Wally, apparently examining her last words and turning them
over in his mind found that they did not square with his preconceived theor=
ies.
"You weren't
expecting me?"
"I certainly=
was
not!"
"But . . . b=
ut
you knew I lived here?"
Jill shook her he=
ad.
Wally reflected for an instant, and then put his finger, with a happy
inspiration, on the very heart of the mystery.
"Then how on
earth did you get here?"
He was glad he had
asked that. The sense of unreality which had come to him in the first start=
ling
moment of seeing her and vanished under the influence of logic had returned=
as
strong as ever. If she did not know he lived in this place, how in the name=
of
everything uncanny had she found her way here? A momentary wonder as to whe=
ther
all this was not mixed up with telepathy and mental suggestion and all that=
sort
of thing came to him. Certainly he had been thinking of her all the time si=
nce
their parting at the Savoy Hotel that night three weeks had more back . . .=
No,
that was absurd. There must be some sounder reason for her presence. He wai=
ted
for her to give it.
Jill for the mome=
nt
felt physically incapable of giving it. She shrank from the interminable
explanation which confronted her as a weary traveller shrinks from a dusty,
far-stretching desert. She simply could not go into all that now. So she
answered with a question.
"When did you
land in New York?"
"This aftern=
oon.
We were supposed to dock this morning, but the boat was late." Wally
perceived that he was pushed away from the main point, and jostled his way =
to
it. "But what are you doing here?"
"It's such a
long story."
Her voice was
plaintive. Remorse smote Wally. It occurred to him that he had not been
sufficiently sympathetic. Not a word had he said on the subject of her chan=
ge
of fortunes. He had just stood and gaped and asked questions. After all, wh=
at
the devil did it matter how she came to be here? He had anticipated a long =
and
tedious search for her through the labyrinth of New York, and here Fate had
brought her to his very door, and all he could do was to ask why, instead of
being thankful. He perceived that he was not much of a fellow.
"Never
mind," he said. "You can tell me what you feel like it." He =
looked
at her eagerly. Time seemed to have wiped away that little misunderstanding
under the burden of which they had parted. "It's too wonderful finding=
you
like this!" He hesitated. "I heard about--everything," he sa=
id
awkwardly.
"My--" =
Jill
hesitated too. "My smash?"
"Yes. Freddie
Rooke told me. I was terribly sorry."
"Thank
you," said Jill.
There was a pause.
They were both thinking of that other disaster which had happened. The pres=
ence
of Derek Underhill seemed to stand like an unseen phantom between them. Fin=
ally
Wally spoke at random, choosing the first words that came into his head in =
his
desire to break the silence.
"Jolly place,
this, isn't it?"
Jill perceived th=
at
an opening for those tedious explanations had been granted her.
"Uncle Chris
thinks so," she said demurely.
Wally looked puzz=
led.
"Uncle Chris?
Oh, your uncle?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"But--he has
never been here."
"Oh, yes. He=
's
giving a dinner party here tonight!"
"He's . . . =
what
did you say?"
"It's all ri=
ght.
I only began at the end of the story instead of the beginning. I'll tell you
the whole thing, then . . . then I suppose you will be terribly angry and m=
ake
a fuss."
"I'm not muc=
h of
a lad, as Freddie Rooke would say, for making fusses. And I can't imagine b=
eing
terribly angry with you."
"Well, I'll =
risk
it. Though, if I wasn't a brave girl, I should leave Uncle Chris to explain=
for
himself and simply run away."
"Anything is
better than that. It's a miracle meeting you like this, and I don't want to=
be
deprived of the fruits of it. Tell me anything, but don't go."
"You'll be
furious."
"Not with
you."
"I should ho=
pe
not with me. I've done nothing. I am the innocent heroine. But I'm afraid y=
ou
will be very angry with Uncle Chris."
"If he's your
uncle, that passes him. Besides, he once licked the stuffing out of me with=
a
whangee. That forms a bond. Tell me all."
Jill considered. =
She
had promised to begin at the beginning, but it was difficult to know what w=
as
the beginning.
"Have you ev=
er
heard of Captain Kidd?" she asked at length.
"You're
wandering from the point, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not.
Have you heard of Captain Kidd?"
"The pirate?=
Of
course."
"Well, Uncle
Chris is his direct lineal descendant. That really explains the whole
thing."
Wally looked at h=
er
enquiringly.
"Could you m=
ake
it a little easier?" he said.
"I can tell =
you
everything in half a dozen words, if you like. But it will sound awfully
abrupt."
"Go ahead.&q=
uot;
"Uncle Chris=
has
stolen your apartment."
Wally nodded slow=
ly.
"I see. Stol=
en
my apartment."
"Of course y=
ou
can't possibly understand. I shall have to tell you the whole thing, after
all."
Wally listened wi=
th
flattering attention as she began the epic of Major Christopher Selby's doi=
ngs
in New York. Whatever his emotions, he certainly was not bored.
"So that's h=
ow
it all happened," concluded Jill.
For a moment Wally
said nothing. He seemed to be digesting what he had heard.
"I see,"=
; he
said at last. "It's a variant of those advertisements they print in the
magazines. 'Why pay rent? Own somebody else's home!'"
"That does
rather sum it up," said Jill.
Wally burst into a
roar of laughter.
"He's a
corker!"
Jill was immensely
relieved. For all her courageous bearing, she had not relished the task of
breaking the news to Wally. She knew that he had a sense of humor, but a man
may have a sense of humor and yet not see anything amusing in having his ho=
me
stolen in his absence.
"I'm so glad
you're not angry."
"Of course
not."
"Most men wo=
uld
be."
"Most men are
chumps."
"It's so
wonderful that it happened to be you. Suppose it had been an utter stranger!
What could I have done?"
"It would ha=
ve
been the same thing. You would have won him over in two minutes. Nobody cou=
ld
resist you."
"That's very
sweet of you."
"I can't help
telling the truth. Washington was just the same."
"Then you do=
n't
mind Uncle Chris giving his dinner-party here tonight?"
"He has my
blessing."
"You really =
are
an angel," said Jill gratefully. "From what he said, I think he l=
ooks
on it as rather an important function. He has invited a very rich woman, wh=
o has
been showing him a lot of hospitality,--a Mrs Peagrim . . ."
"Mrs Waddesl=
eigh
Peagrim?"
"Yes? Why, do
you know her?"
"Quite well.=
She
goes in a good deal for being Bohemian and knowing people who write and pai=
nt
and act and so on. That reminds me. I gave Freddie Rooke a letter of
introduction to her."
"Freddie
Rooke!"
"Yes. He
suddenly made up his mind to come over. He came to me for advice about the
journey. He sailed a couple of days before I did. I suppose he's somewhere =
in
New York by now, unless he was going on to Florida. He didn't tell me what =
his
plans were."
Jill was consciou=
s of
a sudden depression. Much as she liked Freddie, he belonged to a chapter in=
her
life which was closed and which she was trying her hardest to forget. It was
impossible to think of Freddie without thinking of Derek, and to think of D=
erek
was like touching an exposed nerve. The news that Freddie was in New York s=
hocked
her. New York had already shown itself a city of chance encounters. Could s=
he
avoid meeting Freddie?
She knew Freddie =
so
well. There was not a dearer or a better-hearted youth in the world, but he=
had
not that fine sensibility which pilots a man through the awkwardnesses of l=
ife.
He was a blunderer. Instinct told her that, if she met Freddie, he would ta=
lk
of Derek, and, if thinking of Derek was touching an exposed nerve, talking =
of
him would like pressing on that nerve with a heavy hand. She shivered.
Wally was observa=
nt.
"There's no =
need
to meet him, if you don't want to," he said.
"No," s=
aid
Jill doubtfully.
"New York's a
large place. By the way," he went on, "to return once more to the
interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleep here at nights, do =
you
know?"
Jill looked at him
gratefully. He was no blunderer. Her desire to avoid Freddie Rooke was, he =
gave
her tacitly to understand, her business, and he did not propose to intrude =
on
it. She liked him for dismissing the subject so easily.
"No, I think=
he
told me he doesn't."
"Well, that's
something, isn't it! I call that darned nice of him! I wonder if I could dr=
op
back here somewhere about eleven o'clock. Are the festivities likely to be =
over
by then? If I know Mrs Peagrim, she will insist on going off to one of the
hotels to dance directly after dinner. She's a confirmed trotter."
"I don't know
how to apologize," began Jill remorsefully.
"Please don'= t. It's absolutely all right." His eye wandered to the mantelpiece, as it= had done once or twice during the conversation. In her hurry Jill had replaced = the snapshot with its back to the room, and Wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherished possession is maltreated. He got up now and, walking across, turned the photograph round. He stood for a moment, looking at it.<= o:p>
Jill had forgotten
the snapshot. Curiosity returned to her.
"Where did y=
ou
get that?" she asked.
Wally turned.
"Oh, did you=
see
this?"
"I was looki=
ng
at it just before you nearly frightened me to death by appearing so
unexpectedly."
"Freddie Roo=
ke
sold it to me fourteen years ago."
"Fourteen ye=
ars
ago!"
"Next
July," added Wally. "I gave him five shillings for it."
"Five shilli=
ngs!
The little brute!" cried Jill indignantly "It must have been all =
the
money you had in the world!"
"A trifle mo=
re,
as a matter of fact. All the money I had in the world was three-and-six. Bu=
t by
a merciful dispensation of Providence the curate had called that morning and
left a money-box for subscriptions to the village organ-fund . . . It's
wonderful what you can do with a turn for crime and the small blade of a
pocket-knife! I don't think I have ever made money quicker!" He looked=
at
the photograph again. "Not that it seemed quick at the moment. I died =
at
least a dozen agonizing deaths in the few minutes I was operating. Have you
ever noticed how slowly time goes when you are coaxing a shilling and a six=
pence
out of somebody's money-box? Centuries! But I was forgetting. Of course you=
've
had no experience."
"You poor
thing!"
"It was worth
it."
"And you've =
had
it ever since!"
"I wouldn't =
part
with it for all Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's millions," said Wally with
sudden and startling vehemence, "if she offered me them." He paus=
ed.
"She hasn't, as a matter of fact."
There was a silen=
ce.
Jill looked at Wally furtively, as he returned to his seat. She was seeing =
him
with new eyes. It was as if this trifling incident had removed some sort of=
a
veil. He had suddenly become more alive. For an instant she had seen right =
into
him, to the hidden deeps of his soul. She felt shy and embarrassed.
"Pat died,&q=
uot;
she said, at length. She felt the necessity of saying something.
"I liked
Pat."
"He picked up
some poison, poor darling . . . How long ago those days seem, don't they!&q=
uot;
"They are al=
ways
pretty vivid to me. I wonder who has that old house of yours now."
"I heard the
other day," said Jill more easily. The odd sensation of embarrassment =
was
passing. "Some people called . . . what was the name? . . . Debenham, I
think."
Silence fell agai=
n.
It was broken by the front-door bell, like an alarm-clock that shatters a
dream.
Wally got up.
"Your uncle,=
"
he said.
"You aren't
going to open the door?"
"That was the
scheme."
"But he'll g=
et
such a shock when he sees you."
"He must loo=
k on
it in the light of rent. I don't see why I shouldn't have a little passing
amusement from this business."
He left the room.
Jill heard the front door open. She waited breathlessly. Pity for Uncle Chr=
is
struggled with the sterner feeling that it served him right.
"Hullo!"
she heard Wally say.
"Hullo-ullo-=
ullo!"
replied an exuberant voice. "Wondered if I'd find you in, and all that
sort of thing. I say, what a deuce of a way up it is here. Sort of gets a c=
hap
into training for going to heaven, what? I mean, what?"
Jill looked about=
her
like a trapped animal. It was absurd, she felt, but every nerve in her body
cried out against the prospect of meeting Freddie. His very voice had opened
old wounds and set them throbbing.
She listened in t=
he
doorway. Out of sight down the passage, Freddie seemed by the sounds to be
removing his overcoat. She stole out and darted like a shadow down the corr=
idor
that led to Wally's bedroom. The window of the bedroom opened onto the wide
roof which Uncle Chris had eulogized. She slipped noiselessly out, closing =
the
window behind her.
2.
"I say, Maso=
n,
old top," said Freddie, entering the sitting-room, "I hope you do=
n't
mind my barging in like this but the fact is things are a bit thick. I'm da=
shed
worried and I didn't know another soul I could talk it over with. As a matt=
er
of fact, I wasn't sure you were in New York at all but I remembered hearing=
you
say in London that you went popping back almost at once, so I looked you up=
in
the telephone book and took a chance. I'm dashed glad you are back. When did
you arrive?"
"This
afternoon."
"I've been h=
ere
two or three days. Well, it's a bit of luck catching you. You see, what I w=
ant
to ask your advice about . . ."
Wally looked at h=
is
watch. He was not surprised to find that Jill had taken to flight. He
understood her feelings perfectly, and was anxious to get rid of the
inopportune Freddie as soon as possible.
"You'll have=
to
talk quick, I'm afraid," he said. "I've lent this place to a man =
for
the evening, and he's having some people to dinner. What's the trouble?&quo=
t;
"It's about
Jill."
"Jill?"=
"Jill Marine=
r,
you know. You remember Jill? You haven't forgotten my telling you all that?
About her losing her money and coming over to America?"
"No. I remem=
ber
you telling me that."
Freddie seemed to
miss something in his companion's manner, some note of excitement and
perturbation.
"Of course,&=
quot;
he said, as if endeavoring to explain this to himself, "you hardly knew
her, I suppose. Only met once since you were kids and all that sort of thin=
g.
But I'm a pal of hers and I'm dashed upset by the whole business, I can tell
you. It worries me, I mean to say. Poor girl, you know, landed on her upper=
s in
a strange country. Well, I mean, it worries me. So the first thing I did wh=
en I
got here was to try to find her. That's why I came over, really, to try to =
find
her. Apart from anything else, you see, poor old Derek is dashed worried ab=
out
her."
"Need we bri=
ng
Underhill in?"
"Oh, I know =
you
don't like him and think he behaved rather rummily and so forth, but that's=
all
right now."
"It is, is
it?" said Wally drily.
"Oh, absolut=
ely.
It's all on again."
"What's all =
on
again?"
"Why, I mean=
he
wants to marry Jill. I came over to find her and tell her so."
Wally's eyes glow=
ed.
"If you have
come over as an ambassador . . ."
"That's righ=
t.
Jolly old ambassador. Very word I used myself."
"I say, if y=
ou
have come over as an ambassador with the idea of reopening negotiations with
Jill on behalf of that infernal swine . . ."
"Old man!&qu=
ot;
protested Freddie, pained. "Pal of mine, you know."
"If he is, a=
fter
what's happened, your mental processes are beyond me."
"My what, old
son?"
"Your mental
processes."
"Oh, ah!&quo=
t;
said Freddie, learning for the first time that he had any.
Wally looked at h=
im
intently. There was a curious expression on his rough-hewn face.
"I can't
understand you, Freddie. If ever there was a fellow who might have been
expected to take the only possible view of Underhill's behavior in this
business, I should have said it was you. You're a public-school man. You've
mixed all the time with decent people. You wouldn't do anything that wasn't=
straight
yourself to save your life, it seems to have made absolutely no difference =
in your
opinion of this man Underhill that he behaved like an utter cad to a girl w=
ho
was one of your best friends. You seem to worship him just as much as ever.=
And
you have travelled three thousand miles to bring a message from him to
Jill--Good God! Jill!--to the effect, as far as I understand it, that he has
thought it over and come to the conclusion that after all she may possibly =
be
good enough for him!"
Freddie recovered=
the
eye-glass which the raising of his eyebrows had caused to fall, and polishe=
d it
in a crushed sort of way. Rummy, he reflected, how chappies stayed the same=
all
their lives as they were when they were kids. Nasty, tough sort of chap Wal=
ly
Mason had been as a boy, and here he was, apparently, not altered a bit. At
least, the only improvement he could detect was that, whereas in the old da=
ys
Wally, when in an ugly mood like this, would undoubtedly have kicked him, he
now seemed content with mere words. All the same, he was being dashed
unpleasant. And he was all wrong about poor old Derek. This last fact he
endeavored to make clear.
"You don't
understand," he said. "You don't realize. You've never met Lady
Underhill, have you?"
"What has she
got to do with it?"
"Everything,=
old
bean, everything. If it hadn't been for her, there wouldn't have been any
trouble of any description, sort, or order. But she barged in and savaged p=
oor
old Derek till she absolutely made him break off the engagement."
"If you call=
him
'poor old Derek' again, Freddie," said Wally viciously, "I'll drop
you out of the window and throw your hat after you! If he's such a
gelatine-backboned worm that his mother can . . ."
"You don't k=
now
her, old thing! She's the original hellhound!"
"I don't care
what . . ."
"Must be see=
n to
be believed," mumbled Freddie.
"I don't care
what she's like! Any man who could . . ."
"Once seen,
never forgotten!"
"Damn you! D=
on't
interrupt every time I try to get a word in!"
"Sorry, old =
man!
Shan't occur again!"
Wally moved to the
window, and stood looking out. He had had much more to say on the subject of
Derek Underhill, but Freddie's interruptions had put it out of his head, an=
d he
felt irritated and baffled.
"Well, all I=
can
say is," he remarked savagely, "that, if you have come over here =
as
an ambassador to try and effect a reconciliation between Jill and Underhill=
, I
hope to God you'll never find her."
Freddie emitted a
weak cough, like a very far-off asthmatic old sheep. He was finding Wally m=
ore
overpowering every moment. He had rather forgotten the dear old days of his
childhood, but this conversation was beginning to refresh his memory: and he
was realizing more vividly with every moment that passed how very Wallyish
Wally was,--how extraordinarily like the Wally who had dominated his growing
intellect when they were both in Eton suits. Freddie in those days had been=
all
for peace, and he was all for peace now. He made his next observation
diffidently.
"I have found
her!"
Wally spun round.=
"What!"=
"When I say
that, I don't absolutely mean. I've seen her. I mean I know where she is.
That's what I came round to see you about. Felt I must talk it over, you kn=
ow.
The situation seems to me dashed rotten and not a little thick. The fact is,
old man, she's gone on the stage. In the chorus, you know. And, I mean to s=
ay,
well, if you follow what I'm driving at, what, what?"
"In the
chorus!"
"In the
chorus!"
"How do you
know?"
Freddie groped for
his eye-glass, which had fallen again.
He regarded it a
trifle sternly. He was fond of the little chap, but it was always doing that
sort of thing. The whole trouble was that, if you wanted to keep it in its
place, you simply couldn't register any sort of emotion with the good old
features: and, when you were chatting with a fellow like Wally Mason, you h=
ad
to be registering something all the time.
"Well, that =
was
a bit of luck, as a matter of fact. When I first got here, you know, it see=
med
to me the only thing to do was to round up a merry old detective and put the
matter in his hands, like they do in stories. You know! Ring at the bell. '=
And
this, if I mistake not, Watson, is my client now.' And then in breezes clie=
nt
and spills the plot. I found a sleuth in the classified telephone directory,
and toddled round. Rummy chaps, detectives! Ever met any? I always thought =
they
were lean, hatchet-faced Johnnies with inscrutable smiles. This one looked =
just
like my old Uncle Ted, the one who died of apoplexy. Jovial, puffy-faced bi=
rd,
who kept bobbing up behind a fat cigar. Have you ever noticed what whacking=
big
cigars these fellows over here smoke? Rummy country, America. You ought to =
have
seen the way this blighter could shift his cigar right across his face with=
out
moving his jaw-muscles. Like a flash! Most remarkable thing you ever saw, I
give you my honest word! He . . ."
"Couldn't you
keep your Impressions of America for the book you're going to write, and co=
me
to the point?" said Wally rudely.
"Sorry, old
chap," said Freddie meekly. "Glad you reminded me. Well . . . Oh,
yes. We had got as far as the jovial old human bloodhound, hadn't we? Well,=
I
put the matter before this chappie. Told him I wanted to find a girl, showed
him a photograph, and so forth. I say," said Freddie, wandering off on=
ce
more into speculation, "why is it that coves like that always talk of a
girl as 'the little lady'? This chap kept saying 'We'll find the little lady
for you!' Oh, well, that's rather off the rails, isn't it? It just floated
across my mind and I thought I'd mention it. Well, this blighter presumably
nosed about and made enquiries for a couple of days, but didn't effect anyt=
hing
that you might call substantial. I'm not blaming him, mind you. I shouldn't
care to have a job like that myself. I mean to say, when you come to think =
of
what a frightful number of girls there are in this place, to have to . . .
well, as I say, he did his best but didn't click; and then this evening, ju=
st
before I came here, I met a girl I had known in England--she was in a show =
over
there--a girl called Nelly Bryant . . ."
"Nelly Bryan=
t? I
know her."
"Yes? Fancy
that! She was in a thing called 'Follow the Girl' in London. Did you see it=
by
any chance? Topping show! There was one scene where the . . ."
"Get on! Get=
on!
I wrote it,"
"You wrote
it?" Freddie beamed simple-hearted admiration. "My dear old chap,=
I
congratulate you! One of the ripest and most all-wool musical comedies I've
ever seen. I went twenty-four times. Rummy I don't remember spotting that y=
ou
wrote it. I suppose one never looks at the names on the programme. Yes, I w=
ent
twenty-four times. The first time I went was with a couple of chappies from=
. .
."
"Listen,
Freddie!" said Wally feverishly. "On some other occasion I should
dearly love to hear the story of your life, but just now . . ."
"Absolutely,=
old
man. You're perfectly right. Well, to cut a long story short, Nelly Bryant =
told
me that she and Jill were rehearsing with a piece called 'The Rose of
America.'"
"'The Rose of
America!'"
"I think that
was the name of it."
"That's Ike
Goble's show. He called me up on the phone about it half an hour ago. I
promised to go and see a rehearsal of it tomorrow or the day after. And Jil=
l's
in that?"
"Yes. How ab=
out
it? I mean, I don't know much about this sort of thing, but do you think it=
's
the sort of thing Jill ought to be doing?"
Wally was moving
restlessly about the room. Freddie's news had disquieted him. Mr Goble had a
reputation.
"I know a lot
about it," he replied, "and it certainly isn't." He scowled =
at
the carpet. "Oh, damn everybody!"
Freddie paused to
allow him to proceed, if such should be his wish, but Wally had apparently =
said
his say. Freddie went on to point out an aspect of the matter which was
troubling him greatly.
"I'm sure po=
or
old Derek wouldn't like her being in the chorus!"
Wally started so
violently that for a moment Freddie was uneasy.
"I mean
Underhill," he corrected himself hastily.
"Freddie,&qu=
ot;
said Wally, "you're an awfully good chap, but I wish you would exit
rapidly now! Thanks for coming and telling me, very good of you. This way
out!"
"But, old ma=
n .
. . !"
"Now what?&q=
uot;
"I thought we
were going to discuss this binge and decide what to do and all that sort of
thing."
"Some other
time. I want to think about it."
"Oh, you will
think about it?"
"Yes, I'll t=
hink
about it."
"Topping! You
see, you're a brainy sort of feller, and you'll probably hit something.&quo=
t;
"I probably
shall, if you don't go."
"Eh? Oh, ah,
yes!" Freddie struggled into his coat. More than ever did the adult Wa=
lly
remind him of the dangerous stripling of years gone by. "Well,
cheerio!"
"Same to
you!"
"You'll let =
me
know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze, won't you? I'm at the
Biltmore."
"Very good p=
lace
to be. Go there now."
"Right ho! W=
ell,
toodle-oo!"
"The elevato=
r is
at the foot of the stairs," said Wally. "You press the bell and u=
p it
comes. You hop in and down you go. It's a great invention! Good night!"=
;
"Oh, I say. =
One
moment . . ."
"Good
night!" said Wally.
He closed the doo=
r,
and ran down the passage.
"Jill!"=
he
called. He opened the bedroom window and stepped out. "Jill!"
There was no repl=
y.
"Jill!"
called Wally once again, but again there was no answer.
Wally walked to t=
he
parapet, and looked over. Below him the vastness of the city stretched itse=
lf
in a great triangle, its apex the harbor, its sides the dull silver of the =
East
and Hudson rivers. Directly before him, crowned with its white lantern, the
Metropolitan Tower reared its graceful height to the stars. And all around,=
in
the windows of the tall buildings that looked from this bastion on which he
stood almost squat, a million lights stared up at him, the unsleeping eyes =
of
New York. It was a scene of which Wally, always sensitive to beauty, never
tired: but tonight it had lost its appeal. A pleasant breeze from the Jersey
shore greeted him with a quickening whisper of springtime and romance, but =
it
did not lift the heaviness of his heart. He felt depressed and apprehensive=
.
1.
Spring, whose com=
ing
the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smoked upon the roof, floated gracio=
usly
upon New York two mornings later. The city awoke to a day of blue and gold =
and
to a sense of hard times over and good times to come. In a million homes, a
million young men thought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million
young women of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. In=
his
apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle air from the
window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his Morning Telegraph
with a resolve to walk to the theatre for rehearsal: a resolve which had al=
so
come to Jill and Nelly Bryant, eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house=
in
the Forties. On the summit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swed=
ish
exercises to the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upp=
er windows
of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous and optimistic; and went =
in
to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And it was of Jill, too, that young Mr
Pilkington thought, as he propped his long form up against the pillows and
sipped his morning cup of tea. He had not yet had an opportunity of inspect=
ing
the day for himself, but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner =
for
papers, had spoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling=
on the
carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside. For the first
time in several days a certain moodiness which had affected Otis Pilkington
left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.
The gaiety of Otis
was not, however, entirely or even primarily due to the improvement in the
weather. It had its source in a conversation which had taken place between
himself and Jill's Uncle Chris on the previous night. Exactly how it had co=
me
about, Mr Pilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fu=
lly aware
of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby's sympathetic =
ears
the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other's kindly receptiveness, he
had told him all--his love for Jill, his hopes that some day it might be
returned, the difficulties complicating the situation owing to the known
prejudices of Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the perso=
nnel
of musical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby had liste=
ned
with keen attention, and finally had made one of those luminous suggestions=
, so
simple yet so shrewd, which emanate only from your man of the world. It was
Jill's girlish ambition, it seemed from Major Selby's statement, to become a
force in the motion-picture world. The movies were her objective. When she =
had
told him of this, said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best
interests, to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the compa=
ny
of some good musical play, where she could learn from the best masters so m=
uch
of the technique of the business. That done, she could go about her life-wo=
rk,
fortified and competent.
What, he broke of=
f to
ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?
Pilkington thought
the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderf=
ul
in the movies.
There was, said U=
ncle
Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.
Mr Pilkington agr=
eed
cordially. A great future.
"Look at Mary
Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"
Mr Pilkington
contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. He instanced other stars--les=
ser
luminaries, perhaps, but each with her thousands a week. There was no doubt
about it--a girl's best friend was the movies.
"Observe,&qu=
ot;
proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding his chest as he spread=
his
legs before the fire, "how it would simplify the whole matter if Jill =
were
to become a motion-picture artist and win fame and wealth in her profession.
And there can be no reasonable doubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, w=
ith
her appearance and her charm . . . Which of these women whose names you see=
all
along Broadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started, w=
ith
the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. And then. . . .=
Of
course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as I know nothing of them, =
but
we will assume that she is not indifferent to you . . . what then? You go to
your excellent aunt and announce that you are engaged to be married to Jill
Mariner. There is a momentary pause. 'Not the Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs
Peagrim. 'Yes, the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy,
can you see her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I ca=
n see
no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, as he had pictur=
ed
Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course, there would be the
preliminaries."
"The
preliminaries?"
Uncle Chris' voice
became a melodious coo. He beamed upon Mr Pilkington.
"Well, think=
for
yourself, my boy! These things cannot be done without money. I do not propo=
se
to allow my niece to waste her time and her energy in the rank and file of =
the
profession, waiting years for a chance that might never come. There is plen=
ty
of room at the top, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the plac=
e to
start. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a special company must=
be
formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, a star, from the beginni=
ng.
That is why I have advised her to accept her present position temporarily, =
in
order that she may gain experience. She must learn to walk before she runs.=
She
must study before she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take th=
e step,
she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether," said Uncle Chris,
smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to take shares in
the company yourself . . ."
"Oo . . .
!"
". . . is a
matter," proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring the interruption, "for y=
ou
yourself to decide. Possibly you have other claims on your purse. Possibly =
this
musical play of yours has taken all the cash you are prepared to lock up.
Possibly you may consider the venture too speculative. Possibly . . . there=
are
a hundred reasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men--=
I can
go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men--who will be glad to
advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that I personally shall not
hesitate to risk--if one can call it risking--any loose cash which I may ha=
ve
lying idle at my banker's."
He rattled the lo=
ose
cash which he had lying idle in his trouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--a=
nd
stopped to flick a piece of fluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was th=
us
enabled to insert a word.
"How much wo=
uld
you want?" he enquired.
"That,"
said Uncle Chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. I should have=
to
look into the matter more closely in order to give you the exact figures. B=
ut
let us say for the sake of argument that you put up--what shall we say?--a
hundred thousand? fifty thousand? . . . no, we will be conservative. Perhaps
you had better not begin with more than ten thousand. You can always buy mo=
re
shares later. I don't suppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand
myself."
"I could man=
age
ten thousand all right."
"Excellent. =
We
make progress, we make progress. Very well, then. I go to my Wall Street
friends--I would give you their names, only for the present, till something
definite has been done, that would hardly be politic--I go to my Wall Street
friends, and tell them about the scheme, and say 'Here is ten thousand doll=
ars!
What is your contribution?' It puts the affair on a business-like basis, yo=
u understand.
Then we really get to work. But use your own judgment my boy, you know. Use
your own judgment. I would not think of persuading you to take such a step,=
if
you felt at all doubtful. Think it over. Sleep on it. And, whatever you dec=
ide
to do, on no account say a word about it to Jill. It would be cruel to raise
her hopes until we are certain that we are in a position to enable her to
realize them. And, of course, not a word to Mrs Peagrim."
"Of
course."
"Very well,
then, my boy." said Uncle Chris affably. "I will leave you to turn
the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as you think best. How is y=
our
insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino? Capital! There's nothing like it=
. It
did wonders for me! Good-night, good-night!"
Otis Pilkington h=
ad
been turning the thing over in his mind, with an interval for sleep, ever
since. And the more he thought of it, the better the scheme appeared to him=
. He
winced a little at the thought of the ten thousand dollars, for he came of
prudent stock and had been brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after al=
l,
he reflected, the money would be merely a loan. Once the company found its
feet, it would be returned to him a hundred-fold. And there was no doubt th=
at this
would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of Jill, as far as his
Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his--young Brewster Philmore--had
married a movie-star only two years ago, and nobody had made the slightest
objection. Brewster was to be seen with his bride frequently beneath Mrs
Peagrim's roof. Against the higher strata of Bohemia Mrs Peagrim had no
prejudice at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. She liked the society of thos=
e whose
names were often in the papers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to O=
tis Pilkington,
in short, that Love had found a way. He sipped his tea with relish, and when
the Japanese valet brought in the toast all burned on one side, chided him =
with
a gentle sweetness which, one may hope, touched the latter's Oriental heart=
and
inspired him with a desire to serve this best of employers more efficiently=
.
At half-past ten,
Otis Pilkington removed his dressing-gown and began to put on his clothes to
visit the theatre. There was a rehearsal-call for the whole company at elev=
en.
As he dressed, his mood was as sunny as the day itself.
And the day, by
half-past ten, was as sunny as ever Spring day had been in a country where
Spring comes early and does its best from the very start, The blue sky beam=
ed
down on a happy city. To and fro the citizenry bustled, aglow with the
perfection of the weather. Everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on =
the
stage of the Gotham Theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the m=
ain event,
had been called by Johnson Miller in order to iron some of the kinks out of=
the
"My Heart and I" number, which, with the assistance of the male
chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one.
On the stage of t=
he
Gotham gloom reigned--literally, because the stage was wide and deep and was
illumined only by a single electric light: and figuratively, because things
were going even worse than usual with the "My Heart and I" number,
and Johnson Miller, always of an emotional and easily stirred temperament, =
had
been goaded by the incompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. At
about the moment when Otis Pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown and r=
eached
for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill), Johnson Miller w=
as
pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit and the first row of the orche=
stra
chairs, waving one hand and clutching his white locks with the other, his v=
oice
raised the while in agonized protest.
"Gentlemen, =
you
silly idiots," complained Mr Miller loudly, "you've had three wee=
ks
to get these movements into your thick heads, and you haven't done a damn t=
hing
right! You're all over the place! You don't seem able to turn without tumbl=
ing
over each other like a lot of Keystone Kops! What's the matter with you? Yo=
u're
not doing the movements I showed you; you're doing some you have invented y=
ourselves,
and they are rotten! I've no doubt you think you can arrange a number better
than I can, but Mr Goble engaged me to be the director, so kindly do exactl=
y as
I tell you. Don't try to use your own intelligence, because you haven't any.
I'm not blaming you for it. It wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped y=
ou
on your heads when you were babies. But it handicaps you when you try to
think."
Of the seven gent=
lemanly
members of the male ensemble present, six looked wounded by this tirade. Th=
ey
had the air of good men wrongfully accused. They appeared to be silently
calling on Heaven to see justice done between Mr. Miller and themselves. The
seventh, a long-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of English c=
ut, seemed,
on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It was this youth who n=
ow
stepped down to the darkened footlights and spoke in a remorseful and
conscience-stricken manner.
"I say!"=
;
Mr Miller, that
martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat. He had swung off at ri=
ght
angles and was marching in an overwrought way up the central aisle leading =
to
the back of the house, his india rubber form moving in convulsive jerks. On=
ly
when he had turned and retraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and
prepare to take his share in the conversation.
"What?"=
he
shouted. "Can't hear you!"
"I say, you
know, it's my fault, really."
"What?"=
"I mean to s=
ay,
you know . . ."
"What? Speak=
up,
can't you?"
Mr Saltzburg, who=
had
been seated at the piano, absently playing a melody from his unproduced mus=
ical
comedy, awoke to the fact that the services of an interpreter were needed. =
He
obligingly left the music-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the
stage-box. He placed his arm about Mr Miller's shoulders and his lips to Mr=
Miller's
left ear, and drew a deep breath.
"He says it =
is
his fault!"
Mr Miller nodded
adhesion to this admirable sentiment.
"I know they=
're
not worth their salt!" he replied.
Mr Saltzburg
patiently took in a fresh stock of breath.
"This young =
man
says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!"
"Tell him I =
only
signed on this morning, laddie," urged the tweed-clad young man.
"He only joi=
ned
the company this morning!"
This puzzled Mr
Miller.
"How do you
mean, warning?" he asked.
Mr Saltzburg, pur=
ple
in the face, made a last effort.
"This young =
man
is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words of one syllable. &quo=
t;He
does not yet know the steps. He says this is his first day here, so he does=
not
yet know the steps. When he has been here some more time he will know the
steps. But now he does not know the steps."
"What he
means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "is that I d=
on't
know the steps."
"He does not
know the steps!" roared Mr Saltzburg.
"I know he
doesn't know the steps," said Mr Miller. "Why doesn't he know the
steps? He's had long enough to learn them."
"He is
new!"
"Hugh?"=
"New!"<= o:p>
"Oh, new?&qu=
ot;
"Yes, new!&q=
uot;
"Why the dev=
il
is he new?" cried Mr Miller, awaking suddenly to the truth and filled =
with
a sense of outrage. "Why didn't he join with the rest of the company? =
How
can I put on chorus numbers if I am saddled every day with new people to te=
ach?
Who engaged him?"
"Who engaged
you?" enquired Mr Saltzburg of the culprit.
"Mr
Pilkington."
"Mr
Pilkington," shouted Mr Saltzburg.
"When?"=
"When?"=
"Last
night."
"Last
night."
Mr Miller waved h=
is
hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round, darted up the aisle, turn=
ed,
and bounded back. "What can I do?" he wailed. "My hands are
tied! I am hampered! I am handicapped! We open in two weeks, and every day I
find somebody new in the company to upset everything I have done. I shall g=
o to
Mr Goble and ask to be released from my contract. I shall . . . Come along,
come along, come along now!" he broke off suddenly. "Why are we
wasting time? The whole number once more. The whole number once more from t=
he beginning!"
The young man
tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running a finger in an agitated
manner round the inside of his collar. He was not used to this sort of thin=
g.
In a large experience of amateur theatricals he had never encountered anyth=
ing
like it. In the breathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse =
and refrain
by the lady who played the heroine of "The Rose of America," he f=
ound
time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.
"I say! Is he
always like this?"
"Who?
Johnny?"
"The sportsm=
an
with the hair that turned white in a single night. The barker on the skylin=
e.
Does he often get the wind up like this?"
His colleague smi=
led
tolerantly.
"Why, that's
nothing!" he replied. "Wait till you see him really cut loose! Th=
at
was just a gentle whisper!"
"My God!&quo=
t;
said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leading lady came to the
end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of the ensemble, who had been hanging
about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly down towards her in a double line; t=
he
new arrival, with an eye on his nearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as
nimbly as the others. A clapping of hands from the dark auditorium
indicated--inappropriately-- that he had failed to do so. Mr Miller could be
perceived--dimly-- with all his fingers entwined in his hair.
"Clear the
stage!" yelled Mr Miller. "Not you!" he shouted, as the late=
st
addition to the company began to drift off with the others. "You
stay!"
"Me?"
"Yes, you. I
shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or we shall get nowhere. Go
on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg. Now, when the refrain begins,
come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!"
The young man, pi=
nk
but determined, began to come down gracefully. And it was while he was thus
occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant, entering the wings which were beginnin=
g to
fill up as eleven o'clock approached, saw him.
"Whoever is
that?" said Nelly.
"New man,&qu=
ot;
replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "Came this morning."
Nelly turned to J=
ill.
"He looks ju=
st
like Mr Rooke!" she exclaimed.
"He is Mr
Rooke!" said Jill.
"He can't
be!"
"He is!"=
;
"But what is=
he
doing here?"
Jill bit her lip.=
"That's just
what I'm going to ask him myself," she said.
2.
The opportunity f=
or a
private conversation with Freddie did not occur immediately. For ten minute=
s he
remained alone on the stage, absorbing abusive tuition from Mr Miller: and =
at
the end of that period a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsi=
ng
of the number with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When, =
finally,
a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of Mr Goble an=
d at
the same time indicated Mr Goble's desire that the stage should be cleared =
and
the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of recognition and a faint "Wh=
at
ho!" was all that Freddie was able to bestow upon Jill, before, with t=
he
rest of the ensemble, they had to go out and group themselves for the openi=
ng
chorus. It was only when this had been run through four times and the stage
left vacant for two of the principals to play a scene that Jill was able to
draw the Last of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the quest=
ion.
"Freddie, wh=
at
are you doing here?"
Freddie mopped his
streaming brow. Johnson Miller's idea of an opening chorus was always
strenuous. On the present occasion, the ensemble were supposed to be guests=
at
a Long Island house-party, and Mr Miller's conception of the gathering
suggested that he supposed house-party guests on Long Island to consist
exclusively of victims of St Vitus' dance. Freddie was feeling limp, batter=
ed,
and exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.
"Eh?" he
said feebly.
"What are you
doing here?"
"Oh, ah, yes=
! I
see what you mean! I suppose you're surprised to find me in New York,
what?"
"I'm not
surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over. But I am surpr=
ised
to find you on the stage, being bullied by Mr Miller."
"I say,"
said Freddie in an awed voice. "He's a bit of a nut, that lad, what! He
reminds me of the troops of Midian in the hymn. The chappies who prowled and
prowled around. I'll bet he's worn a groove in the carpet. Like a jolly old
tiger at the Zoo at feeding time. Wouldn't be surprised at any moment to lo=
ok
down and find him biting a piece out of my leg!"
Jill seized his a=
rm
and shook it.
"Don't rambl=
e,
Freddie! Tell me how you got here."
"Oh, that was
pretty simple. I had a letter of introduction to this chappie Pilkington wh=
o's
running this show, and, we having got tolerably pally in the last few days,=
I
went to him and asked him to let me join the merry throng. I said I didn't =
want
any money and the little bit of work I would do wouldn't make any differenc=
e,
so he said 'Right ho!' or words to that effect, and here I am."
"But why? You
can't be doing this for fun, surely?"
"Fun!" A
pained expression came into Freddie's face. "My idea of fun isn't anyt=
hing
in which jolly old Miller, the bird with the snowy hair, is permitted to mi=
x.
Something tells me that that lad is going to make it his life-work picking =
on
me. No, I didn't do this for fun. I had a talk with Wally Mason the night b=
efore
last, and he seemed to think that being in the chorus wasn't the sort of th=
ing
you ought to be doing, so I thought it over and decided that I ought to join
the troupe too. Then I could always be on the spot, don't you know, if there
was any trouble. I mean to say, I'm not much of a chap and all that sort of
thing, but still I might come in handy one of these times. Keep a fatherly =
eye
on you, don't you know, and what not!"
Jill was touched.=
"You're a de=
ar,
Freddie!"
"I thought,
don't you know, it would make poor old Derek a bit easier in his mind."=
;
Jill froze.
"I don't wan=
t to
talk about Derek, Freddie, please."
"Oh, I know =
what
you must be feeling. Pretty sick, I'll bet, what? But if you could see him =
now
. . ."
"I don't wan=
t to
talk about him!"
"He's pretty=
cut
up, you know. Regrets bitterly and all that sort of thing. He wants you to =
come
back again."
"I see! He s=
ent
you to fetch me?"
"That was mo=
re
or less the idea."
"It's a shame
that you had all the trouble. You can get messenger-boys to go anywhere and=
do
anything nowadays. Derek ought to have thought of that."
Freddie looked at=
her
doubtfully.
"You're
spoofing, aren't you? I mean to say, you wouldn't have liked that!"
"I shouldn't
have disliked it any more than his sending you."
"Oh, but I
wanted to pop over. Keen to see America and so forth."
Jill looked past =
him
at the gloomy stage. Her face was set, and her eyes sombre.
"Can't you
understand, Freddie? You've known me a long time. I should have thought that
you would have found out by now that I have a certain amount of pride. If D=
erek
wanted me back, there was only one thing for him to do--come over and find =
me
himself."
"Rummy! That=
's
what Mason said, when I told him. You two don't realize how dashed busy Der=
ek
is these days."
"Busy!"=
Something in her =
face
seemed to tell Freddie that he was not saying the right thing, but he stumb=
led
on.
"You've no
notion how busy he is. I mean to say, elections coming on and so forth. He
daren't stir from the metrop."
"Of course I
couldn't expect him to do anything that might interfere with his career, co=
uld
I?"
"Absolutely =
not.
I knew you would see it!" said Freddie, charmed at her reasonableness.=
All
rot, what you read about women being unreasonable. "Then I take it it's
all right, eh?"
"All
right?"
"I mean you =
will
toddle home with me at the earliest opp. and make poor old Derek happy?&quo=
t;
Jill laughed
discordantly.
"Poor old Derek!" she echoed. "He has been badly treated, hasn't he?"<= o:p>
"Well, I
wouldn't say that," said Freddie doubtfully. "You see, coming dow=
n to
it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?"
"More or
less!"
"I mean to s=
ay .
. ."
"More or
less!"
Freddie glanced at
her anxiously. He was not at all sure now that he liked the way she was loo=
king
or the tone in which she spoke. He was not a keenly observant young man, but
there did begin at this point to seep through to his brain-centers a suspic=
ion
that all was not well.
"Let me pull
myself together!" said Freddie warily to his immortal soul. "I
believe I'm getting the raspberry!" And there was silence for a space.=
The complexity of
life began to weigh upon Freddie. Life was like one of those shots at squash
which seem so simple till you go to knock the cover off the ball, when the =
ball
sort of edges away from you and you miss it. Life, Freddie began to perceiv=
e,
was apt to have a nasty back-spin on it. He had never had any doubt when he=
had
started, that the only difficult part of his expedition to America would be=
the
finding of Jill. Once found, he had presumed that she would be delighted to
hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him home on the next boat. =
It
appeared now, however, that he had been too sanguine. Optimist as he was, he
had to admit that, as far as could be ascertained with the naked eye, the j=
olly
old binge might be said to have sprung a leak.
He proceeded to
approach the matter from another angle.
"I say!"=
;
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"You do love=
old
Derek, don't you? I mean to say, you know what I mean, love him and all that
sort of rot?"
"I don't
know!"
"You don't k=
now!
Oh, I say, come now! You must know! Pull up your socks, old thing . . . I m=
ean,
pull yourself together! You either love a chappie or you don't."
Jill smiled
painfully.
"How nice it
would be if everything were as simple and straightforward as that. Haven't =
you
ever heard that the dividing line between love and hate is just a thread? P=
oets
have said so a great number of times."
"Oh,
poets!" said Freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of the hand. He=
had
been compelled to read Shakespeare and all that sort of thing at school, bu=
t it
had left him cold, and since growing to man's estate he had rather handed t=
he
race of bards the mitten. He liked Doss Chiderdoss' stuff in the Sporting
Times, but beyond that he was not much of a lad for poets.
"Can't you
understand a girl in my position not being able to make up her mind whether=
she
loves a man or despises him?"
Freddie shook his
head.
"No," he
said. "It sounds dashed silly to me!"
"Then what's=
the
good of talking?" cried Jill. "It only hurts."
"But--won't =
you
come back to England?"
"No."
"Oh, I say! =
Be a
sport! Take a stab at it!"
Jill laughed
again--another of those grating laughs which afflicted Freddie with a sense=
of
foreboding and failure. Something had undoubtedly gone wrong with the works=
. He
began to fear that at some point in the conversation--just where he could n=
ot
say--he had been less diplomatic than he might have been.
"You speak a=
s if
you were inviting me to a garden-party! No, I won't take a stab at it. You'=
ve a
lot to learn about women, Freddie!"
"Women are
rum!" conceded that perplexed ambassador.
Jill began to move
away.
"Don't go!&q=
uot;
urged Freddie.
"Why not? Wh=
at's
the use of talking any more? Have you ever broken an arm or a leg,
Freddie?"
"Yes," =
said
Freddie, mystified. "As a matter of fact, my last year at Oxford, play=
ing
soccer for the college in a friendly game, some blighter barged into me and=
I
came down on my wrist. But . . ."
"It hurt?&qu=
ot;
"Like the
deuce!"
"And then it
began to get better, I suppose. Well, used you to hit it and twist it and p=
rod
it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal? I won't talk any more about
Derek! I simply won't! I'm all smashed up inside, and I don't know if I'm e=
ver
going to get well again, but at least I'm going to give myself a chance. I'm
working as hard as ever I can, and I'm forcing myself not to think of him. =
I'm
in a sling, Freddie, like your wrist, and I don't want to be prodded. I hop=
e we
shall see a lot of each other while you're over here--you always were the
greatest dear in the world--but you mustn't mention Derek again, and you
mustn't ask me to go home. If you avoid those subjects, we'll be as happy as
possible. And now I'm going to leave you to talk to poor Nelly. She has been
hovering round for the last ten minutes, waiting for a chance to speak to y=
ou.
She worships you, you know!"
Freddie started
violently.
"Oh, I say! =
What
rot!"
Jill had gone, an=
d he
was still gaping after her, when Nelly Bryant moved towards him--shyly, lik=
e a
worshiper approaching a shrine.
"Hello, Mr
Rooke!" said Nelly.
"Hullo-ullo-=
ullo!"
said Freddie.
Nelly fixed her l=
arge
eyes on his face. A fleeting impression passed through Freddie's mind that =
she
was looking unusually pretty this morning: nor was the impression unjustifi=
ed.
Nelly was wearing for the first time a Spring suit which was the outcome of
hours of painful selection among the wares of a dozen different stores, and=
the
knowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from her like an inner
light. She felt happy: and her happiness had lent an unwonted color to her =
face
and a soft brightness to her eyes.
"How nice it=
is,
your being here!"
Freddie waited for
the inevitable question, the question with which Jill had opened their
conversation; but it did not come. He was surprised, but relieved. He hated
long explanations, and he was very doubtful whether loyalty to Jill could a=
llow
him to give them to Nelly. His reason for being where he was had to do so
intimately with Jill's most private affairs. A wave of gratitude to Nelly s=
wept
through him when he realised that she was either incurious or else too
delicate-minded to show inquisitiveness.
As a matter of fa=
ct,
it was delicacy that kept Nelly silent. Seeing Freddie here at the theatre,=
she
had, as is not uncommon with fallible mortals, put two and two together and
made the answer four when it was not four at all. She had been deceived by
circumstantial evidence. Jill, whom she had left in England wealthy and sec=
ure,
she had met again in New York penniless as the result of some Stock Exchange
cataclysm in which, she remembered with the vagueness with which one recalls
once-heard pieces of information, Freddie Rooke had been involved. True, she
seemed to recollect hearing that Freddie's losses had been comparatively
slight, but his presence in the chorus of "The Rose of America"
seemed to her proof that after all the must have been devastating. She could
think of no other reason except loss of money which could have placed Fredd=
ie
in the position in which she now found him, so she accepted it; and, with t=
he
delicacy which was innate in her and which a hard life had never blunted,
decided, directly she saw him, to make no allusion to the disaster.
Such was Nelly's =
view
of the matter, and sympathy gave to her manner a kind of maternal gentleness
which acted on Freddie, raw from his late encounter with Mr Johnson Miller =
and
disturbed by Jill's attitude in the matter of poor old Derek, like a healing
balm. His emotions were too chaotic for analysis, but one thing stood out c=
lear
from the welter--the fact that he was glad to be with Nelly as he had never
been glad to be with a girl before, and found her soothing as he had never
supposed a girl could be soothing.
They talked
desultorily of unimportant things, and every minute found Freddie more
convinced that Nelly was not as other girls. He felt that he must see more =
of
her.
"I say,"=
; he
said. "When this binge is over . . . when the rehearsal finishes, you
know, how about a bite to eat?"
"I should lo=
ve
it. I generally go to the Automat."
"The how-muc=
h?
Never heard of it."
"In Times
Square. It's cheap, you know."
"I was think=
ing
of the Cosmopolis."
"But that's =
so
expensive."
"Oh, I don't
know. Much the same as any of the other places, isn't it?"
Nelly's manner be=
came
more motherly than ever. She bent forward and touched his arm affectionatel=
y.
"You haven't=
to
keep up any front with me," she said gently. "I don't care whether
you're rich or poor or what. I mean, of course I'm awfully sorry you've lost
your money, but it makes it all the easier for us to be real pals, don't you
think so?"
"Lost my
money!"
"Well, I know
you wouldn't be here if you hadn't. I wasn't going to say anything about it,
but, when you talked of the Cosmopolis, I just had to. You lost your money =
in
the same thing Jill Mariner lost hers, didn't you? I was sure you had, the
moment I saw you here. Who cares? Money isn't everything!"
Astonishment kept
Freddie silent for an instant: after that he refrained from explanations of=
his
own free will. He accepted the situation and rejoiced in it. Like many other
wealthy and modest young men, he had always had a sneaking suspicion at the
back of his mind that any girl who was decently civil to him was so from mi=
xed motives--or
more likely, motives that were not even mixed. Well, dash it, here was a gi=
rl
who seemed to like him although under the impression that he was broke to t=
he
wide. It was an intoxicating experience. It made him feel a better chap. It
fortified his self-respect.
"You know,&q=
uot;
he said, stammering a little, for he found a sudden difficulty in controlli=
ng
his voice. "You're a dashed good sort!"
"I'm awfully
glad you think so."
There was a
silence--as far, at least, as he and she were concerned. In the outer world,
beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelter they stood, stirring things,
loud and exciting things, seemed to be happening. Some sort of an argument
appeared to be in progress. The rasping voice of Mr Goble was making itself
heard from the unseen auditorium. These things they sensed vaguely, but they
were too occupied with each other to ascertain details.
"What was the
name of that place again?" asked Freddie. "The what-ho-something?=
"
"The
Automat?"
"That's the
little chap! We'll go there, shall we?"
"The food's quite good. You go and help yourself out of slot-machines, you know."<= o:p>
"My favorite
indoor sport!" said Freddie with enthusiasm. "Hullo! What's up? It
sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!"
The voice of the
assistant stage-manager was calling--sharply excited, agitation in every
syllable.
"All the
gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! Mr Goble wants all the
chorus--gentlemen on the stage!"
"Well, cheer=
io
for the present," said Freddie. "I suppose I'd better look into
this." He made his way onto the stage.
3.
There is an insid=
ious
something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal of a musical play which saps =
the
finer feelings of those connected with it. Softened by the gentle beauty of=
the
Spring weather, Mr Goble had come to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an
excellent temper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day=
. Five
minutes of "The Rose of America" had sent him back to the normal:=
and
at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at the st=
age
with all the sweetness gone from his soul. When Wally Mason arrived at a
quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him, the manager recei=
ved
him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him a cigar. And when a New York
theatrical manager does that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the
worst.
One may find excu=
ses
for Mr Goble. "The Rose of America" would have tested the equanim=
ity
of a far more amiable man: and on Mr Goble what Otis Pilkington had called =
its
delicate whimsicality jarred profoundly. He had been brought up in the
lower-browed school of musical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the
opening number and filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the gir=
ls
in a variety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists to g=
et
the laughs. Mr Goble's idea of a musical piece was something embracing trai=
ned
seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilled buck-and-wing dancers, w=
ith
nothing on the stage, from a tree to a lamp-shade, which could not suddenly
turn into a chorus-girl. The austere legitimateness of "The Rose of
America" gave him a pain in the neck. He loathed plot, and "The R=
ose
of America" was all plot.
Why, then, had the
earthy Mr. Goble consented to associate himself with the production of this
intellectual play? Because he was subject, like all other New York managers=
, to
intermittent spasms of the idea that the time is ripe for a revival of comic
opera. Sometimes, lunching in his favorite corner in the Cosmopolis grill-r=
oom,
he would lean across the table and beg some other manager to take it from h=
im
that the time was ripe for a revival of comic opera--or more cautiously, th=
at
pretty soon the time was going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. And=
the
other manager would nod his head and thoughtfully stroke his three chins and
admit that, sure as God made little apples, the time was darned soon going =
to
be ripe for a revival of comic opera. And then they would stuff themselves =
with
rich food and light big cigars and brood meditatively.
With most managers
these spasms, which may be compared to twinges of conscience, pass as quick=
ly
as they come, and they go back to coining money with rowdy musical comedies,
quite contented. But Otis Pilkington, happening along with the script of
"The Rose of America" and the cash to back it, had caught Mr Gobl=
e in
the full grip of an attack, and all the arrangements had been made before t=
he
latter emerged from the influence. He now regretted his rash act.
"Say,
listen," he said to Wally, his gaze on the stage, his words proceeding=
from
the corner of his mouth, "you've got to stick around with this show af=
ter
it opens on the road. We'll talk terms later. But we've got to get it right,
don't care what it costs. See?"
"You think it
will need fixing?"
Mr Goble scowled =
at
the unconscious artists, who were now going through a particularly arid str=
etch
of dialogue.
"Fixing! It's
all wrong! It don't add up right! You'll have to rewrite it from end to
end."
"Well, I've =
got
some ideas about it. I saw it played by amateurs last summer, you know. I c=
ould
make a quick job of it, if you want me to. But will the author stand for
it?"
Mr Goble allowed a
belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and twisted it round in Wally's
direction.
"Say, listen!
He'll stand for anything I say. I'm the little guy that gives orders round
here. I'm the big noise!"
As if in support =
of
this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. The effect was magica=
l.
The refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been
shot. The assistant stage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, whi=
ch
had now been turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script.
"Take that o=
ver
again!" shouted Mr Goble. "Yes, that speech about life being like=
a
water-melon. It don't sound to me as though it meant anything." He coc=
ked
his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. He clapped his hands. The act=
ion
stopped again. "Cut it!" said Mr Goble tersely.
"Cut the spe=
ech,
Mr Goble?" queried the obsequious assistant stage-director.
"Yes. Cut it=
. It
don't mean nothing!"
Down the aisle,
springing from a seat at the back, shimmered Mr Pilkington, wounded to the
quick.
"Mr Goble! Mr
Goble!"
"Well?"=
"That is the
best epigram in the play."
"The best
what?"
"Epigram. The
best epigram in the play."
Mr. Goble knocked=
the
ash off his cigar. "The public don't want epigrams. The public don't l=
ike
epigrams. I've been in the show business fifteen years, and I'm telling you!
Epigrams give them a pain under the vest. All right, get on."
Mr Pilkington
fluttered agitatedly. This was his first experience of Mr Goble in the capa=
city
of stage-director. It was the latter's custom to leave the early rehearsals=
of
the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did w=
hat
Mr Goble called the breaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in pers=
on,
undo most of the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their=
lines,
and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr Goble's hobby. He imagi=
ned
himself to have a genius in that direction, and it was useless to try to in=
duce
him to alter any decision to which he might have come. He regarded those who
did not agree with him with the lofty contempt of an Eastern despot.
Of this Mr Pilkin=
gton
was not yet aware.
"But, Mr Gob=
le .
. . !"
The potentate swu=
ng
irritably round on him.
"What is it?
What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?"
"That epigra=
m .
. ."
"It's out!&q=
uot;
"But . . .
!"
"It's out!&q=
uot;
"Surely,&quo= t; protested Mr Pilkington almost tearfully, "I have a voice . . ."<= o:p>
"Sure you ha=
ve a
voice," retorted Mr Goble, "and you can use it any old place you
want, except in my theatre. Have all the voice you like! Go round the corner
and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath! But don't come using it here, beca=
use
I'm the little guy that does all the talking in this theatre! That fellow g=
ets
my goat," he added complainingly to Wally, as Mr Pilkington withdrew l=
ike
a foiled python. "He don't know nothing about the show business, and he
keeps butting in and making fool suggestions. He ought to be darned glad he=
's
getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me how to direct
it." He clapped his hands imperiously. The assistant stage-manager bent
over the footlights. "What was that that guy said? Lord Finchley's last
speech. Take it again."
The gentleman who=
was
playing the part of Lord Finchley, an English character actor who specializ=
ed
in London "nuts," raised his eyebrows, annoyed. Like Mr Pilkingto=
n,
he had never before come into contact with Mr Goble as stage-director, and,
accustomed to the suaver methods of his native land, he was finding the
experience trying. He had not yet recovered from the agony of having that w=
ater-melon
line cut out of his part. It was the only good line, he considered, that he
had. Any line that is cut out of an actor's part is always the only good li=
ne
he has.
"The speech
about Omar Khayyam?" he enquired with suppressed irritation.
"I thought t=
hat
was the way you said it. All wrong! It's Omar of Khayyam."
"I think you
will find that Omar Khayyam is the--ah--generally accepted version of the
poet's name," said the portrayer of Lord Finchley, adding beneath his
breath. "You silly ass!"
"You say Oma=
r of
Khayyam," bellowed Mr Goble. "Who's running this show, anyway?&qu=
ot;
"Just as you
please."
Mr Goble turned to
Wally.
"These actor=
s .
. ." he began, when Mr Pilkington appeared again at his elbow.
"Mr Goble! Mr
Goble!"
"What is it
now?"
"Omar Khayyam
was a Persian poet. His name was Khayyam."
"That wasn't=
the
way I heard it," said Mr Goble doggedly. "Did you?" he enqui=
red
of Wally. "I thought he was born at Khayyam."
"You're prob=
ably
quite right," said Wally, "but, if so, everybody else has been wr=
ong
for a good many years. It's usually supposed that the gentleman's name was =
Omar
Khayyam. Khayyam, Omar J. Born 1050 A.D., educated privately and at Bagdad
University. Represented Persia in the Olympic Games of 1072, winning the
sitting high-jump and the egg-and-spoon race. The Khayyams were quite a
well-known family in Bagdad, and there was a lot of talk when Omar, who was=
Mrs
Khayyam's pet son, took to drink writing poetry. They had had it all fixed =
for him
to go into his father's date business."
Mr Goble was
impressed. He had a respect for Wally's opinion, for Wally had written
"Follow the Girl" and look what a knock-out that had been. He sto=
pped
the rehearsal again.
"Go back to = that Khayyam speech!" he said, interrupting Lord Finchley in mid-sentence.<= o:p>
The actor whisper=
ed a
hearty English oath beneath his breath. He had been up late last night, and=
, in
spite of the fair weather, he was feeling a trifle on edge.
"'In the wor=
ds
of Omar of Khayyam' . . ."
Mr Goble clapped =
his
hands.
"Cut that
'of,'" he said. "The show's too long, anyway."
And, having handl=
ed a
delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leaned back in his chair and chewed=
the
end off another cigar.
For some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. If Mr Goble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms except to Wally. To him he enlarged fr= om time to time on the pain which "The Rose of America" caused him.<= o:p>
"How I ever =
came
to put on junk like this beats me," confessed Mr Goble frankly.
"You probably
saw that there was a good idea at the back of it," suggested Wally.
"There is, you know. Properly handled, it's an idea that could be made
into a success."
"What would =
you
do with it?"
"Oh, a lot of
things," said Wally warily. In his younger and callower days he had
sometimes been rash enough to scatter views on the reconstruction of plays
broadcast, to find them gratefully absorbed and acted upon and treated as a
friendly gift. His affection for Mr Goble was not so overpowering as to cau=
se
him to give him ideas for nothing now. "Any time you want me to fix it=
for
you, I'll come along. About one and a half per cent of the gross would meet=
the
case, I think."
Mr Goble faced hi=
m,
registering the utmost astonishment and horror.
"One and a h=
alf
per cent for fixing a show like this? Why, darn it, there's hardly anything=
to
do to it! It's--it's--in!"
"You called =
it
junk just now."
"Well, all I
meant was that it wasn't the sort of thing I cared for myself. The public w=
ill
eat it! Take it from me, the time is just about ripe for a revival of comic
opera."
"This one wi=
ll
want all the reviving you can give it. Better use a pulmotor."
"But that lo=
ng
boob, that Pilkington . . . he would never stand for my handing you one and=
a
half per cent."
"I thought y=
ou
were the little guy who arranged things round here."
"But he's got
money in the show."
"Well, if he
wants to get any out, he'd better call in somebody to rewrite it. You don't
have to engage me if you don't want to. But I know I could make a good job =
of
it. There's just one little twist the thing needs and you would have quite a
different piece."
"What's
that?" enquired Mr Goble casually.
"Oh, just a =
little
. . . what shall I say? . . . a little touch of what-d'you-call-it and a bi=
t of
thingummy. You know the sort of thing! That's all it wants."
Mr Goble gnawed h=
is
cigar, baffled.
"You think s=
o,
eh?" he said at length.
"And perhaps=
a
suspicion of je-ne-sais-quoi," added Wally.
Mr Goble worried =
his
cigar, and essayed a new form of attack.
"You've done=
a
lot of work for me," he said. "Good work!"
"Glad you li=
ked
it," said Wally.
"You're a go=
od
kid! I like having you around. I was half thinking of giving you a show to =
do
this Fall. Corking book. French farce. Ran two years in Paris. But what's t=
he
good, if you want the earth?"
"Always usef=
ul,
the earth. Good thing to have."
"See here, if
you'll fix up this show for half of one per cent, I'll give you the other to
do."
"You shouldn=
't
slur your words so. For a moment I thought you said 'half of one per cent.'=
One
and a half of course you really said."
"If you won't
take half, you don't get the other."
"All
right," said Wally. "There are lots of other managers in New York.
Haven't you seen them popping about? Rich, enterprising men, and all of them
love me like a son."
"Make it one=
per
cent," said Mr Goble, "and I'll see if I can fix it with
Pilkington."
"One and a
half."
"Oh, damn it,
one and a half, then," said Mr Goble morosely. "What's the good of
splitting straws?"
"Forgotten
Sports of the Past--Splitting the Straw. All right. If you drop me a line to
that effect, legibly signed with your name, I'll wear it next my heart. I s=
hall
have to go now. I have a date. Good-bye. Glad everything's settled and
everybody's happy."
For some moments
after Wally had left, Mr Goble sat hunched up in his orchestra-chair, smoki=
ng
sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever. Living in a little world of
sycophants, he was galled by the off-hand way in which Wally always treated
him. There was something in the latter's manner which seemed to him sometim=
es
almost contemptuous. He regretted the necessity of having to employ him. Th=
ere
was, of course, no real necessity why he should have employed Wally. New Yo=
rk was
full of librettists who would have done the work equally well for half the
money, but, like most managers, Mr Goble had the mental processes of a shee=
p.
"Follow the Girl" was the last outstanding musical success in New
York theatrical history: Wally had written it: therefore nobody but Wally w=
as
capable of rewriting "The Rose of America." The thing had for Mr
Goble the inevitability of Fate. Except for deciding mentally that Wally had
swelled head, there was nothing to be done.
Having decided th=
at
Wally had swelled head and not feeling much better, Mr Goble concentrated h=
is
attention on the stage. A good deal of action had taken place there during
recently concluded business talk, and the unfortunate Finchley was back aga=
in,
playing another of his scenes. Mr Goble glared at Lord Finchley. He did not
like him, and he did not like the way he was speaking his lines.
The part of Lord
Finchley was a non-singing role. It was a type part. Otis Pilkington had go=
ne
to the straight stage to find an artist, and had secured the not uncelebrat=
ed
Wentworth Hill, who had come over from London to play in an English comedy
which had just closed. The newspapers had called the play thin, but had tho=
ught
that Wentworth Hill was an excellent comedian. Mr Hill thought so too, and =
it
was consequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellow from
the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speeches and a raspi=
ng
voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong.
"I beg your
pardon?" said Mr. Hill, quietly but dangerously, stepping to the
footlights.
"All
wrong!" repeated Mr Goble.
"Really?&quo=
t;
Wentworth Hill, who a few years earlier had spent several terms at Oxford
University before being sent down for aggravated disorderliness, had brought
little away with him from that seat of learning except the Oxford manner. T=
his
he now employed upon Mr Goble with an icy severity which put the last touch=
to
the manager's fermenting state of mind. "Perhaps you would be kind eno=
ugh
to tell me just how you think that part should be played?"
Mr Goble marched =
down
the aisle.
"Speak out to
the audience," he said, stationing himself by the orchestra pit.
"You're turning your head away all the darned time."
"I may be
wrong," said Mr Hill, "but I have played a certain amount, don't =
you
know, in pretty good companies, and I was always under the impression that =
one
should address one's remarks to the person one was speaking to, not deliver=
a
recitation to the gallery. I was taught that that was the legitimate
method."
The word touched =
off
all the dynamite in Mr Goble. Of all things in the theatre he detested most=
the
"legitimate method." His idea of producing was to instruct the ca=
st
to come down to the footlights and hand it to 'em. These people who looked =
up
stage and talked to the audience through the backs of their necks revolted =
him.
"Legitimate!
That's a hell of a thing to be! Where do you get that legitimate stuff? You
aren't playing Ibsen!"
"Nor am I
playing a knockabout vaudeville sketch."
"Don't talk =
back
at me!"
"Kindly don't
shout at me! Your voice is unpleasant enough without your raising it."=
Open defiance was=
a
thing which Mr Goble had never encountered before, and for a moment it depr=
ived
him of breath. He recovered it, however, almost immediately.
"You're
fired!"
"On the
contrary," said Mr Hill, "I'm resigning." He drew a green-co=
vered
script from his pocket and handed it with an air to the pallid assistant
stage-director. Then, more gracefully than ever Freddie Rooke had managed to
move downstage under the tuition of Johnson Miller, he moved upstage to the
exit. "I trust that you will be able to find someone who will play the
part according to your ideas!"
"I'll
find," bellowed Mr Goble at his vanishing back, "a chorus-man who=
'll
play it a damned sight better than you!" He waved to the assistant
stage-director. "Send the chorus-men on the stage!"
"All the
gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!" shrilled the assistant
stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever.
"Mr Goble wa=
nts
all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!"
There was a momen=
t,
when the seven male members of "The Rose of America" ensemble lin=
ed
up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes, when Mr Goble repented of his
brave words. An uncomfortable feeling passed across his mind that Fate had
called his bluff and that he would not be able to make good. All chorus-men=
are
exactly alike, and they are like nothing else on earth. Even Mr Goble, anxi=
ous
as he was to overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that i=
n their
ranks stood even an adequate Lord Finchley. And then, just as a cold reacti=
on
from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceived that Providence had =
been
good to him. There, at the extreme end of the line, stood a young man who, =
as
far as appearance went, was the ideal Lord Finchley,--as far as appearance
went, a far better Lord Finchley than the late Mr Hill. He beckoned
imperiously.
"You at the
end!"
"Me?" s=
aid
the young man.
"Yes, you.
What's your name?"
"Rooke.
Frederick Rooke, don't you know."
"You're Engl=
ish,
aren't you?"
"Eh? Oh, yes,
absolutely!"
"Ever played=
a
part before?"
"Part? Oh, I=
see
what you mean. Well, in amateur theatricals, you know, and all that sort of
rot."
His words were mu=
sic
to Mr Goble's ears. He felt that his Napoleonic action had justified itself=
by
success. His fury left him. If he had been capable of beaming, one would ha=
ve
said that he beamed at Freddie.
"Well, you p=
lay
the part of Lord Finchley from now on. Come to my office this afternoon for
your contract. Clear the stage. We've wasted enough time."
Five minutes late=
r,
in the wings, Freddie, receiving congratulations from Nelly Bryant, asserted
himself.
"Not the Aut=
omat
today, I think, what! Now that I'm a jolly old star and all that sort of th=
ing,
it can't be done. Directly this is over we'll roll round to the Cosmopolis.=
A
slight celebration is indicated, what? Right ho! Rally round, dear heart, r=
ally
round!"
1.
The lobby of the
Hotel Cosmopolis is the exact center of New York, the spot where at certain
hours one is sure of meeting everybody one knows. The first person that Nel=
ly
and Freddie saw, as they passed through the swing doors, was Jill. She was
seated on the chair by the big pillar in the middle of the hall.
"What ho!&qu=
ot;
said Freddie. "Waiting for someone?"
"Hullo, Fred=
die.
Yes, I'm waiting for Wally Mason. I got a note from him this morning, askin=
g me
to meet him here. I'm a little early. I haven't congratulated you yet. You'=
re
wonderful!"
"Thanks, old
girl. Our young hero is making pretty hefty strides in his chosen profesh,
what! Mr Rooke, who appears quite simple and unspoiled by success, replied =
to
our representative's enquiry as to his future plans that he proposed to sta=
gger
into the grill-room and imbibe about eighteen dollars' worth of lunch. Yes,=
it
is a bit of all right, taking it by and large, isn't it? I mean to say, the=
salary,
the jolly old salary, you know . . . quite a help when a fellow's lost all =
his
money!"
Jill was surprise=
d to
observe that the Last of the Rookes was contorting his face in an unsightly
manner that seemed to be an attempt at a wink, pregnant with hidden meaning.
She took her cue dutifully, though without understanding.
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
she replied.
Freddie seemed
grateful. With a cordial "Cheerio!" he led Nelly off to the
grill-room.
"I didn't kn=
ow
Jill knew Mr Mason," said Nelly, as they sat down at their table.
"No?" s=
aid
Freddie absently, running an experienced eye over the bill-of-fare. He gave=
an
elaborate order. "What was that? Oh, absolutely! Jill and I and Wally =
were
children together."
"How funny y=
ou
should all be together again like this."
"Yes. Oh, go=
od
Lord!"
"What's the
matter?"
"It's nothin=
g. I
meant to send a cable to a pal of mine in England. I'll send it after
lunch."
Freddie took out =
his
handkerchief, and tied a knot in it. He was slightly ashamed of the necessi=
ty
of taking such a precaution, but it was better to be on the safe side. His
interview with Jill at the theatre had left him with the conviction that th=
ere
was only one thing for him to do, and that was to cable poor old Derek to
forget impending elections and all the rest of it and pop over to America a=
t once.
He knew that he would never have the courage to re-open the matter with Jill
himself. As an ambassador he was a spent force. If Jill was to be wooed from
her mood of intractability, Derek was the only man to do it. Freddie was
convinced that, seeing him in person, she would melt and fall into his arms.
Too dashed absurd, Freddie felt, two loving hearts being separated like this
and all that sort of thing. He replaced his handkerchief in his pocket,
relieved, and concentrated himself on the entertainment of Nelly. A simple
task, for, the longer he was with this girl, the easier did it seem to talk=
to
her.
Jill, left alone =
in
the lobby, was finding the moments pass quite pleasantly. She liked watching
the people as they came in. One or two of the girls of the company fluttere=
d in
like birds, were swooped upon by their cavaliers, and fluttered off to the
grill-room. The red-headed Babe passed her with a genial nod, and, shortly
after, Lois Denham, the willowy recipient of sunbursts from her friend Izzy=
of
the hat-checks, came by in company with a sallow, hawk-faced young man with=
a
furtive eye, whom Jill took--correctly--to be Izzy himself. Lois was looking
pale and proud, and from the few words which came to Jill's ears as they ne=
ared
her, seemed to be annoyed at having been kept waiting.
It was immediately
after this that the swing-doors revolved rather more violently than usual, =
and
Mr Goble burst into view.
There was a cloud
upon Mr Goble's brow, seeming to indicate that his grievance against life h=
ad
not yet been satisfactorily adjusted: but it passed as he saw Jill, and he =
came
up to her with what he would probably have claimed to be an ingratiating sm=
ile.
"Hello!"
said Mr Goble. "All alone?"
Jill was about to=
say
that the condition was merely temporary when the manager went on.
"Come and ha=
ve a
bit of lunch."
"Thank you v=
ery
much," said Jill, with the politeness of dislike, "but I'm waiting
for someone."
"Chuck
him!" advised Mr Goble cordially.
"No, thanks,=
I
couldn't, really."
The cloud began to
descend again upon Mr Goble's brow. He was accustomed to having these invit=
ations
of his treated as royal commands.
"Come
along!"
"I'm afraid =
it's
impossible."
Mr Goble subjected
her to a prolonged stare, seemed about to speak, changed his mind, and swung
off moodily in the direction of the grill-room. He was not used to this sor=
t of
treatment.
He had hardly gon=
e,
when Wally appeared.
"What was he
saying to you?" demanded Wally abruptly, without preliminary greeting.=
"He was aski=
ng
me to lunch."
Wally was silent =
for
a moment. His good-natured face wore an unwonted scowl.
"He went in
there, of course?" he said, pointing to the grill-room.
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Then let's =
go
into the other room," said Wally. He regained his good-humor. "It=
was
awfully good of you to come. I didn't know whether you would be able to.&qu=
ot;
"It was very=
nice
of you to invite me."
Wally grinned.
"How perfect=
our
manners are! It's a treat to listen! How did you know that that was the one=
hat
in New York I wanted you to wear?"
"Oh, these
things get about. Do you like it?"
"It's wonder=
ful.
Let's take this table, shall we?"
2.
They sat down. The
dim, tapestry-hung room soothed Jill. She was feeling a little tired after =
the
rehearsal. At the far end of the room an orchestra was playing a tune that =
she
remembered and liked. Her mind went back to the last occasion on which she =
and
Wally had sat opposite each other at a restaurant. How long ago it seemed! =
She returned
to the present to find Wally speaking to her.
"You left ve=
ry
suddenly the other night," said Wally.
"I didn't wa=
nt
to meet Freddie."
Wally looked at h=
er
commiseratingly.
"I don't wan=
t to
spoil your lunch," he said, "but Freddie knows all. He has tracked
you down. He met Nelly Bryant, whom he seems to have made friends with in
London, and she told him where you were and what you were doing. For a girl=
who
fled at his mere approach the night before last, you don't seem very agitat=
ed
by the news," he said, as Jill burst into a peal of laughter.
"You haven't
heard?"
"Heard
what?"
"Freddie got=
Mr
Pilkington to put him in the chorus of the piece. He was rehearsing when I
arrived at the theatre this morning, and having a terrible time with Mr Mil=
ler.
And, later on, Mr Goble had a quarrel with the man who was playing the
Englishman, and the man threw up his part and Mr Goble said he could get any
one in the chorus to play it just as well, and he chose Freddie. So now Fre=
ddie
is one of the principals, and bursting with pride!"
Wally threw his h=
ead
back and uttered a roar of appreciation which caused a luncher at a neighbo=
ring
table to drop an oyster which he was poising in mid-air.
"Don't make =
such
a noise!" said Jill severely. "Everyone's looking at you."
"I must! It's
the most priceless thing I ever heard. I've always maintained and I always =
will
maintain that for pure lunacy nothing can touch the musical comedy business.
There isn't anything that can't happen in musical comedy. 'Alice in Wonderl=
and'
is nothing to it."
"Have you fe=
lt
that, too? That's exactly how I feel. It's like a perpetual 'Mad Hatter's
Tea-Party.'"
"But what on
earth made Freddie join the company at all?"
A sudden gravity
descended upon Jill. The words had reminded her of the thing which she was
perpetually striving to keep out of her thoughts.
"He said he
wanted to be there to keep an eye on me."
Gravity is
infectious. Wally's smile disappeared. He, too, had been recalled to though=
ts
which were not pleasant.
Wally crumbled his
roll. There was a serious expression on his face.
"Freddie was
quite right. I didn't think he had so much sense."
"Freddie was=
not
right," flared Jill. The recollection of her conversation with that
prominent artist still had the power to fire her independent soul. "I'm
not a child. I can look after myself. What I do is my own business."
"I'm afraid
you're going to find that your business is several people's business. I am
interested in it myself. I don't like your being on the stage. Now bite my =
head
off!"
"It's very k=
ind
of you to bother about me . . ."
"I said 'Bit=
e my
head off!' I didn't say 'Freeze me!' I take the license of an old friend wh=
o in
his time has put worms down your back, and I repeat--I don't like your bein=
g on
the stage."
"I shouldn't
have thought you would have been so"--Jill sought for a devastating
adjective--"so mid-Victorian!"
"As far as y=
ou
are concerned, I'm the middest Victorian in existence. Mid is my middle
name." Wally met her indignant gaze squarely. "I-do-not-like-your=
-being-on-the-stage!
Especially in any company which Ike Goble is running."
"Why Mr Goble
particularly?"
"Because he =
is
not the sort of man you ought to be coming in contact with."
"What
nonsense!"
"It isn't
nonsense at all. I suppose you've read a lot about the morals of theatrical
managers . . ."
"Yes. And it
seemed to be exaggerated and silly."
"So it is.
There's nothing wrong with most of them. As a general thing, they are very
decent fellows,--extraordinarily decent if you think of the position they a=
re
in. I don't say that in a business way there's much they won't try to put o=
ver
on you. In the theatre, when it comes to business, everything goes except
biting and gouging. 'There's never a law of God or man runs north of
fifty-three.' If you alter that to 'north of Forty-first Street,' it doesn't
scan as well, but it's just as true. Perhaps it would be more accurate to s=
ay
that the Golden Rule is suspended there. You get used to it after you have =
been
in the theatre for awhile, and, except for leaving your watch and pocketboo=
k at
home when you have to pay a call on a manager and keeping your face to him =
so
that he can't get away with your back collar-stud, you don't take any notic=
e of
it. It's all a game. If a manager swindles you, he wins the hole and takes =
the
honor. If you foil him, you are one up. In either case, it makes no differe=
nce
to the pleasantness of your relations. You go on calling him by his first n=
ame,
and he gives you a couple of cigars out of his waistcoat pocket and says yo=
u're
a good kid. There is nothing personal in it. He has probably done his best
friend out of a few thousand dollars the same morning, and you see them
lunching together after the ceremony as happily as possible. You've got to =
make
allowances for managers. They are the victims of heredity. When a burglar
marries a hat-check girl, their offspring goes into the theatrical business=
automatically,
and he can't shake off the early teaching which he imbibed at his father's
knee. But morals . . ."
Wally broke off to
allow the waiter to place a fried sole before him. Waiters always select the
moment when we are talking our best to intrude themselves.
"As regards
morals," resumed Wally, "that is a different matter. Most managers
are respectable, middle-aged men with wives and families. They are in the
business to make money, and they don't want anything else out of it. The gi=
rls
in their companies are like so many clerks to them, just machines that help=
to
bring the money in. They don't know half a dozen of them to speak to. But o=
ur
genial Ike is not like that." Wally consumed a mouthful of sole. "=
;Ike
Goble is a bad citizen. He paws! He's a slinker and a prowler and a leerer.
He's a pest and a worm! He's fat and soft and flabby. He has a greasy soul,=
a
withered heart, and an eye like a codfish. Not knocking him, of course!&quo=
t;
added Wally magnanimously. "Far be it from me to knock anyone! But,
speaking with the utmost respect and viewing him in the most favorable ligh=
t,
he is a combination of tom-cat and the things you see when you turn over a =
flat
stone! Such are the reasons why I am sorry that you are in his company.&quo=
t;
Jill had listened=
to
this diatribe with a certain uneasiness.
Her brief encount=
ers
with Mr Goble told her that every word was probably true. She could still f=
eel
the unpleasant sensation of being inspected by the eye which Wally had
compared--quite justly--to that of a codfish. But her pride forbade any
admission of weakness.
"I can take =
care
of myself," she said.
"I don't dou=
bt
it," said Wally. "And you could probably take care of yourself if=
you
fell into a muddy pond. But I shouldn't like to stand on the bank and watch=
you
doing it. I know what girls in the chorus have to go through. Hanging about=
for
hours in draughts, doing nothing, while the principals go through their sce=
nes,
and yelled at if they try to relieve the tedium of captivity with a little
light conversation . . ."
"Yes,"
admitted Jill. "There has been a good lot of that."
"There always
is. I believe if the stage-carpenter was going to stick a screw in a flat, =
they
would call a chorus-rehearsal to watch him do it . . . Jill, you must get o=
ut
of it. It's no life for you. The work . . ."
"I like the
work."
"While it's =
new,
perhaps, but . . ."
Jill interrupted =
him
passionately.
"Oh, can't y=
ou
understand!" she cried. "I want the work. I need it. I want somet=
hing
to do, something to occupy my mind. I hate talking about it, but you know h=
ow
things are with me. Freddie must have told you. Even if he didn't, you must
have guessed, meeting me here all alone and remembering how things were whe=
n we
last met. You must understand! Haven't you ever had a terrible shock or a
dreadful disappointment that seemed to smash up the whole world? And didn't=
you
find that the only possible thing to do was to work and work and work as ha=
rd
as ever you could? When I first came to America, I nearly went mad. Uncle C=
hris
sent me down to a place on Long Island, and I had nothing to do all day but
think. I couldn't stand it. I ran away and came to New York and met Nelly
Bryant and got this work to do. It saved me. It kept me busy all day and ti=
red
me out and didn't give me time to think. The harder it is, the better it su=
its
me. It's an antidote. I simply wouldn't give it up now. As for what you wer=
e saying,
I must put up with that. The other girls do, so why shouldn't I?"
"They are
toughened to it."
"Then I must=
get
toughened to it. What else is there for me to do? I must do something."=
;
"Marry me!&q=
uot;
said Wally, reaching across the table and putting his hand on hers. The lig=
ht
in his eyes lit up his homely face like a lantern.
3.
The suddenness of=
it
startled Jill into silence. She snatched her hand away and drew back, looki=
ng
at him in wonderment. She was confusedly aware of a babble of sound,--people
talking, people laughing, the orchestra playing a lively tune. All her sens=
es
seemed to have become suddenly more acute. She was intensely alive to small=
details.
Then, abruptly, the whole world condensed itself into two eyes that were
fastened upon hers,--compelling eyes which she felt a panic desire to avoid=
.
She turned her he=
ad
away, and looked out into the restaurant. It seemed incredible that all the=
se
people, placidly intent upon their food and their small talk, should not be
staring at her, wondering what she was going to say; nudging each other and
speculating. Their detachment made her feel alone and helpless. She was not=
hing
to them and they did not care what happened to her, just as she had been no=
thing
to those frozen marshes down at Brookport. She was alone in an indifferent
world, with her own problems to settle for herself.
Other men had ask=
ed
Jill to marry them,--a full dozen of them, here and there in country houses=
and
at London before she had met and loved Derek Underhill: but that she had ha=
d in
the way of experience had prepared her for Wally. These others had given her
time to marshal her forces, to collect herself, to weigh them thoughtfully =
in the
balance. Before speaking, they had signalled their devotion in a hundred
perceptible ways--by their pinkness, their stammering awkwardness, by the
glassy look in their eyes. They had not shot a proposal at her like a bullet
from out of the cover of a conversation that had nothing to do with their
emotions at all.
Yet, now that the
shock of it was dying away, she began to remember signs she would have noti=
ced,
speeches which ought to have warned her . . .
"Wally!"
she gasped.
She found that he
affected her in an entirely different fashion from the luckless dozen of th=
ose
London days. He seemed to matter more, to be more important, almost--though=
she
rebelled at the word--more dangerous.
"Let me take=
you
out of it all! You aren't fit for this sort of life. I can't bear to see yo=
u .
. ."
Jill bent forward=
and
touched his hand. He started as though he had been burned. The muscles of h=
is
throat were working.
"Wally,
it's--" She paused for a word. "Kind" was horrible. It would=
have
sounded cold, almost supercilious. "Sweet" was the sort of thing =
she
could imagine Lois Penham saying to her friend Izzy. She began her sentence
again. "You're a dear to say that, but . . ."
Wally laughed
chokingly.
"You think I=
'm
altruistic? I'm not. I'm just as selfish and self-centered as any other man=
who
wants a thing very badly. I'm as altruistic as a child crying for the moon.=
I
want you to marry me because I love you, because there never was anybody li=
ke
you, because you're the whole world, because I always have loved you. I've =
been
dreaming about you for a dozen years, thinking about you, wondering about
you--wondering where you were, what you were doing, how you looked. I used =
to
think that it was just sentimentality, that you merely stood for a time of =
my
life when I was happier than I have ever been since. I used to think that y=
ou
were just a sort of peg on which I was hanging a pleasant sentimental regret
for days which could never come back. You were a memory that seemed to
personify all the other memories of the best time of my life. You were the
goddess of old associations. Then I met you in London, and it was different=
. I
wanted you--you! I didn't want you because you recalled old times and were
associated with dead happiness, I wanted you! I knew I loved you directly y=
ou
spoke to me at the theatre that night of the fire. I loved your voice and y=
our
eyes and your smile and your courage. And then you told me you were engaged=
. I
might have expected it, but I couldn't keep my jealousy from showing itself,
and you snubbed me as I deserved. But now . . . things are different now. E=
verything's
different, except my love."
Jill turned her f=
ace
to the wall beside her. A man at the next table, a corpulent red-faced man,=
had
begun to stare. He could have heard nothing, for Wally had spoken in a low
voice; but plainly he was aware that something more interesting was happeni=
ng
at their table than at any of the other tables, and he was watching with a
bovine inquisitiveness which affected Jill with a sense of outrage. A momen=
t before,
she had resented the indifference of the outer world. Now, this one staring=
man
seemed like a watching multitude. There were tears in her eyes, and she felt
that the red-faced man suspected it.
"Wally . .
." Her voice broke. "It's impossible."
"Why? Why, J=
ill?"
"Because . .=
.
Oh, it's impossible!"
There was a silen=
ce.
"Because . .
." He seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, "Because of
Underhill?"
Jill nodded. She =
felt
wretched. The monstrous incongruity of her surroundings oppressed her. The
orchestra dashed into a rollicking melody, which set her foot tapping in sp=
ite
of herself. At a near-by table somebody was shouting with laughter. Two wai=
ters
at a service-stand were close enough for her to catch snatches of their tal=
k.
They were arguing about an order of fried potatoes. Once again her feelings
veered round, and she loathed the detachment of the world. Her heart ached =
for
Wally. She could not look at him, but she knew exactly what she would see if
she did,--honest, pleading eyes searching her face for something which she
could not give.
"Yes," =
she
said.
The table creaked.
Wally was leaning further forward. He seemed like something large and
pathetic,--a big dog in trouble. She hated to be hurting him. And all the t=
ime
her foot tapped accompaniment to the rag-time tune.
"But you can=
't
live all your life with a memory," said Wally.
Jill turned and f=
aced
him. His eyes seemed to leap at her, and they were just as she had pictured
them.
"You don't
understand," she said gently. "You don't understand."
"It's ended.
It's over."
Jill shook her he=
ad.
"You can't s=
till
love him, after what has happened!"
"I don't
know," said Jill unhappily.
The words seemed =
to
bewilder Wally as much as they had bewildered Freddie.
"You don't
know!"
Jill shut her eyes
tight. Wally quivered. It was a trick she had had as a child. In perplexity,
she had always screwed up her eyes just like that, as if to shut herself up=
in
herself.
"Don't talk =
for
a minute, Wally," she said. "I want to think."
Her eyes opened.<= o:p>
"It's like
this," she said. He had seen her look at him exactly the same way a
hundred times. "I don't suppose I can make you understand, but this is=
how
it is. Suppose you had a room, and it was full of things. Furniture. And th=
ere
wasn't any space left. You--you couldn't put anything else in till you had
taken all that out, could you? It might not be worth anything, but it would
still be there taking up all the room."
Wally nodded.
"Yes," =
he
said. "I see."
"My heart's
full, Wally dear. I know it's just lumber that's choking it up, but it's
difficult to get it out. It takes time getting it out. I put it in, thinkin=
g it
was wonderful furniture, the most wonderful in the world, and--I was cheate=
d.
It was just lumber. But it's there. It's still there. It's there all the ti=
me.
And what am I to do?"
The orchestra
crashed, and was silent. The sudden stillness seemed to break a spell. The
world invaded the little island where they sat. A chattering party of girls=
and
men brushed past them. The waiter, judging that they had been there long
enough, slipped a strip of paper, decorously turned upside down, in front of
Wally. He took the money, and went away to get change.
Wally turned to J=
ill.
"I
understand," he said. "All this hasn't happened, and we're just a=
s good
pals as before?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"But . . .&q=
uot;
He forced a laugh . . . "mark my words, a time may come, and then . . .
!"
"I don't
know," said Jill.
"A time may
come," repeated Wally. "At any rate, let me think so. It has noth=
ing
to do with me. It's for you to decide, absolutely. I'm not going to pursue =
you
with my addresses! If ever you get that room of yours emptied, you won't ha=
ve
to hang out a 'To Let' sign. I shall be waiting and you will know where to =
find
me. And, in the meantime, yours to command, Wallace Mason. Is that clear?&q=
uot;
"Quite
clear." Jill looked at him affectionately. "There's nobody I'd ra=
ther
open that room to than you, Wally. You know that."
"Is that the
solemn truth?"
"The solemn
truth!"
"Then,"
said Wally, "in two minutes you will see a startled waiter. There will=
be
about fourteen dollars change out of that twenty he took away. I'm going to
give it all to him."
"You
mustn't!"
"Every
cent!" said Wally firm. "And the young Greek brigand who stole my=
hat
at the door is going to get a dollar! That, as our ascetic and honorable fr=
iend
Goble would say, is the sort of little guy I am!"
=
*
* &nbs=
p;
*
The red-faced man=
at
the next table eyed them as they went out, leaving behind them a waiter who
clutched totteringly for support at the back of a chair.
"Had a
row," he decided, "but made it up."
He called for a
toothpick.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1.
On the boardwalk =
at
Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resort which has been the birthp=
lace
of so many musical plays, there stands an all-day and all-night restaurant,
under the same management and offering the same hospitality as the one in
Columbus Circle at which Jill had taken her first meal on arriving in New Y=
ork.
At least, its hospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of t=
he
day; but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and the c=
ustomer,
abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silent gravity of the
white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voice and tries to keep his
feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. The members of the chorus of
"The Rose of America," dropping in by ones and twos at six o'cloc=
k in
the morning about two weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter,
spoke in whispers and gave their orders for breakfast in a subdued underton=
e.
The dress-rehears=
al
had just dragged its weary length to a close. It is the custom of the dwell=
ers
in Atlantic City, who seem to live entirely for pleasure, to attend a speci=
es
of vaudeville performance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday
nights: and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scene=
ry could
be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Rose of
America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama no dress=
-rehearsal
can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a half, the curtain had n=
ot
gone up on Mr Miller's opening chorus till half past two. There had been
dress-parades, conferences, interminable arguments between the stage-direct=
or
and a mysterious man in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades,
further conferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak =
of debate
on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the "spot,"
which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the name of Charlie, at=
the
back of the family circle. But by six o'clock a complete, if ragged,
performance had been given, and the chorus, who had partaken of no nourishm=
ent
since dinner on the previous night, had limped off round the corner for a b=
ite of
breakfast before going to bed.
They were a batte=
red
and a draggled company, some with dark circles beneath their eyes, others
blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the make-up which they had been too
tired to take off. The Duchess, haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with=
her
head on the table. The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring=
at
the ceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morning sunshine =
out
on the boardwalk.
The Cherub, whose
triumphant youth had brought her almost fresh through a sleepless night,
contributed the only remark made during the interval of waiting for the mea=
l.
"The fascina=
tion
of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She looked at her reflection =
in
the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It is a face!" she murmured
reflectively. "But I should hate to have to go around with it long!&qu=
ot;
A sallow young ma=
n,
with the alertness peculiar to those who work on the night-shifts of
restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table with a clatter. The Duchess wo=
ke
up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling. The Southern girl ceased to look at=
the
sunshine. Already, at the mere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative
powers of the theatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. In five min=
utes
these girls would be feeling completely restored and fit for anything.
Conversation broke
out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm of the restaurant was shatte=
red.
Its day had begun.
"It's a great
life if you don't weaken," said the Cherub, hungrily attacking her ome=
lette.
"And the wortht is yet to come! I thuppose all you old dears realithe =
that
this show will have to be rewritten from end to end, and we'll be rehearthi=
ng
day and night all the time we're on the road."
"Why?" =
Lois
Denham spoke with her mouth full. "What's wrong with it?"
The Duchess took a
sip of coffee.
"Don't make =
me
laugh!" she pleaded. "What's wrong with it? What's right with it,=
one
would feel more inclined to ask!"
"One would f=
eel
thtill more inclined," said the Cherub, "to athk why one was thuc=
h a
chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thing when one hears on all sid=
es
that waitresses earn thixty dollars a month."
"The numbers=
are
all right," argued Babe. "I don't mean the melodies, but Johnny h=
as
arranged some good business."
"He always
does," said the Southern girl. "Some more buckwheat cakes, please.
But what about the book?"
"I never lis=
ten
to the book."
The Cherub laughe=
d.
"You're too =
good
to yourself! I listened to it right along and take it from me it's sad! Of
courthe they'll have it fixed. We can't open in New York like this. My
professional reputation wouldn't thtand it! Didn't you thee Wally Mason in
front, making notes? They've got him down to do the rewriting."
Jill, who had been
listening in a dazed way to the conversation, fighting against the waves of
sleep which flooded over her, woke up.
"Was Wally--=
was
Mr Mason there?"
"Sure. Sitti=
ng
at the back."
Jill couldn't have
said whether she was glad or sorry. She had not seen Wally since that after=
noon
when they lunched together at the Cosmopolis, and the rush of the final wee=
ks
of rehearsals had given her little opportunity for thinking of him. At the =
back
of her mind had been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to thi=
nk
of him, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy to re-examine=
him
as a factor in her life. There had been times when the thought of him had b=
een
like the sunshine on a winter day, warming her with almost an impersonal gl=
ow
in moments of depression. And then some sharp, poignant memory of Derek wou=
ld
come to blot him out. She remembered the image she had used to explain Dere=
k to
Wally, and the truth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. Whatev=
er
Derek might have done, he was in her heart and she could not get him out.
She came out of h=
er
thoughts to find that the talk had taken another turn.
"And the wor=
tht
of it is," the Cherub was saying, "we shall rehearthe all day and
give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone, and then, when they=
're
good and ready, they'll fire one of us!"
"That's
right!" agreed the Southern girl.
"They
couldn't!" Jill cried.
"You wait!&q=
uot;
said the Cherub. "They'll never open in New York with thirteen girls.
Ike's much too thuperstitious."
"But they
wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked so hard!"
There was a gener=
al
burst of sardonic laughter. Jill's opinion of the chivalry of theatrical
managers seemed to be higher than that of her more experienced colleagues.
"They'll do anything," the Cherub assured her. "You don't kn=
ow
the half of it, dearie," scoffed Lois Denham. "You don't know the
half of it!"
"Wait till
you've been in as many shows as I have," said Babe, shaking her red lo=
cks.
"The usual thing is to keep a girl slaving her head off all through the
road-tour and then fire her before the New York opening."
"But it's a
shame! It isn't fair!"
"If one is
expecting to be treated fairly," said the Duchess with a prolonged yaw=
n,
"one should not go into the show-business."
And, having utter=
ed
this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleep again.
The slumber of the
Duchess was the signal for a general move. Her somnolence was catching. The
restorative effects of the meal were beginning to wear off. There was a call
for a chorus-rehearsal at four o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to
bed and get some sleep while there was time. The Duchess was roused from her
dreams by means of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; checks were pai=
d; and
the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlight of the em=
pty boardwalk.
Jill detached her=
self
from the group, and made her way to a seat facing the ocean. Tiredness had
fallen upon her like a leaden weight, crushing all the power out of her lim=
bs,
and the thought of walking to the boarding-house where, from motives of
economy, she was sharing a room with the Cherub, paralyzed her.
It was a perfect
morning, clear and cloudless, with the warm freshness of a day that means t=
o be
hotter later on. The sea sparkled in the sun. Little waves broke lazily on =
the
gray sand. Jill closed her eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was
trying; and her thoughts went back to what the Cherub had said.
If Wally was real=
ly
going to rewrite the play, they would be thrown together. She would be obli=
ged
to meet him, and she was not sure that she was ready to meet him. Still, he
would be somebody to talk to on subjects other than the one eternal topic of
the theatre, somebody who belonged to the old life. She had ceased to regard
Freddie Rooke in this light: for Freddie, solemn with his new responsibilit=
ies
as a principal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in t=
he company.
Freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject for conversation that did=
not
have to do with "The Rose of America" in general and his share in=
it
in particular. Jill had given him up, and he had paired off with Nelly Brya=
nt.
The two were inseparable. Jill had taken one or two meals with them, but
Freddie's professional monologues, of which Nelly seemed never to weary, we=
re
too much for her. As a result she was now very much alone. There were girls=
in
the company whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimate friends,
and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. She was lonely, an=
d,
after examining the matter as clearly as her tired mind would allow, she fo=
und
herself curiously soothed by the thought that Wally would be near to mitiga=
te
her loneliness.
She opened her ey=
es,
blinking. Sleep had crept upon her with an insidious suddenness, and she had
almost fallen over on the seat. She was just bracing herself to get up and
begin the long tramp to the boarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side.=
"Hullo! Good
morning!"
Jill looked up.
"Hullo,
Wally!"
"Surprised to
see me?"
"No. Milly
Trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night."
Wally came round =
the
bench and seated himself at her side. His eyes were tired, and his chin dark
and bristly.
"Had
breakfast?"
"Yes, thanks.
Have you?"
"Not yet. How
are you feeling?"
"Rather
tired."
"I wonder yo=
u're
not dead. I've been through a good many dress-rehearsals, but this one was =
the
record. Why they couldn't have had it comfortably in New York and just have=
run
through the piece without scenery last night, I don't know, except that in
musical comedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. The=
y know
perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the scenery into the the=
atre
till the small hours. You must be worn out. Why aren't you in bed?"
"I couldn't =
face
the walk. I suppose I ought to be going, though."
She half rose, th=
en
sank back again. The glitter of the water hypnotized her. She closed her ey=
es
again. She could hear Wally speaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and
far off, and she ceased to fight the delicious drowsiness.
Jill awoke with a
start. She opened her eyes, and shut them again at once. The sun was very
strong now. It was one of those prematurely warm days of early Spring which
have all the languorous heat of late summer. She opened her eyes once more,=
and
found that she was feeling greatly refreshed. She also discovered that her =
head
was resting on Wally's shoulder.
"Have I been
asleep?"
Wally laughed.
"You have be=
en
having what you might call a nap." He massaged his left arm vigorously.
"You needed it. Do you feel more rested now?"
"Good gracio=
us!
Have I been squashing your poor arm all the time? Why didn't you move?"=
;
"I was afraid
you would fall over. You just shut your eyes and toppled sideways."
"What's the
time?"
Wally looked at h=
is
watch.
"Just on
ten."
"Ten!" =
Jill
was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp for about three hour=
s!
You must have had an awful time!"
"Oh, it was =
all
right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that the birds didn't come and co=
ver
us with leaves; it was rather like the 'Babes in the Wood.'"
"But you hav=
en't
had any breakfast! Aren't you starving?"
"Well, I'm n=
ot
saying I wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim if it happened to float p=
ast.
But there's plenty of time for that. Lots of doctors say you oughtn't to eat
breakfast, and Indian fakirs go without food for days at a time in order to
develop their souls. Shall I take you back to wherever you're staying? You
ought to get a proper sleep in bed."
"Don't dream=
of
taking me. Go off and have something to eat."
"Oh, that can
wait. I'd like to see you safely home."
Jill was consciou=
s of
a renewed sense of his comfortingness. There was no doubt about it, Wally w=
as
different from any other man she had known. She suddenly felt guilty, as if=
she
were obtaining something valuable under false pretences.
"Wally!"=
;
"Hullo?"=
;
"You--you
oughtn't to be so good to me!"
"Nonsense!
Where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--to a pal in
trouble?"
"You know wh=
at I
mean. I can't . . . that is to say . . . it isn't as though . . . I mean . =
. ."
Wally smiled a ti=
red,
friendly smile.
"If you're
trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! We had all that out=
two
weeks ago. I quite understand the position. You mustn't worry yourself about
it." He took her arm, and they crossed the boardwalk. "Are we goi=
ng
in the right direction? You lead the way. I know exactly how you feel. We're
old friends, and nothing more. But, as an old friend, I claim the right to
behave like an old friend. If an old friend can't behave like an old friend,
how can an old friend behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of the=
conversation.
But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?"
"Oh, no.&quo=
t;
"Then I will
tell you about the sad death of young Mr Pilkington."
"What!"=
"Well, when I
say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The human giraffe still breathe=
s,
and I imagine, from the speed with which he legged it back to his hotel whe=
n we
parted, that he still takes nourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is
broken. We had a conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr Go=
ble
told him in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience I have
never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rotten high-brow false-al=
arm
of a show--I am quoting Mr Goble--would have to be rewritten by alien hands.
And these are them! On the right, alien right hand. On the left, alien left
hand. Yes, I am the instrument selected for the murder of Pilkington's arti=
stic
aspirations. I'm going to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritt=
en
the first act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency and to=
ld
me to get busy two weeks ago, and I've been working hard ever since. We sha=
ll
start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open in Baltimore next Monday
with practically a different piece. And it's going to be a pippin, believe =
me,
said our hero modestly. A gang of composers has been working in shifts for =
two
weeks, and, by chucking out nearly all of the original music, we shall have=
a
good score. It means a lot of work for you, I'm afraid. All the business of=
the
numbers will have to be re-arranged."
"I like
work," said Jill. "But I'm sorry for Mr Pilkington."
"He's all ri=
ght.
He owns seventy per cent of the show. He may make a fortune. He's certain to
make a comfortable sum. That is, if he doesn't sell out his interest in
pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it. From what he said at the close of the
proceedings, I fancy he would sell out to anybody who asked him. At least, =
he
said that he washed his hands of the piece. He's going back to New York thi=
s afternoon,--won't
even wait for the opening. Of course, I'm sorry for the poor chap in a way,=
but
he had no right, with the excellent central idea which he got, to turn out =
such
a rotten book. Oh, by the way!"
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Another
tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He's out!"
"Oh, no!&quo=
t;
"Out!"
repeated Wally firmly.
"But didn't =
you
think he was good last night?"
"He was awfu=
l!
But that isn't why. Goble wanted his part rewritten as a Scotchman, so as to
get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hit last season in 'Hoots, Mon!' T=
hat
sort of thing is always happening in musical comedy. You have to fit parts =
to
suit whatever good people happen to be available at the moment. When you've=
had
one or two experiences of changing your Italian count to a Jewish millionai=
re--invariably
against time: they always want the script on Thursday next at noon--and then
changing him again to a Russian Bolshevik, you begin to realize what is mea=
nt
by the words 'Death, where is thy sting?' My heart bleeds for Freddie, but =
what
can one do? At any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of my =
shows.
In the second act he was supposed to have escaped from an asylum, and the
management, in a passion for realism, insisted that he should shave his hea=
d.
The day after he shaved it, they heard that a superior comedian was disenga=
ged
and fired him. It's a ruthless business."
"The girls w=
ere
saying that one of us would be dismissed."
"Oh, I shoul=
dn't
think that's likely."
"I hope
not."
"So do I. Wh=
at
are we stopping for?" Jill had halted in front of a shabby-looking hou=
se,
one of those depressing buildings which spring up overnight at seashore res=
orts
and start to decay the moment the builders have left them.
"I live
here."
"Here!"
Wally looked at her in consternation. "But . . ."
Jill smiled.
"We
working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quite comfortable--fairly
comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week." She yawned. "I
believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry in and go to bed. Good-b=
ye,
Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind you go and get a good breakfast.&qu=
ot;
2.
When Jill arrived=
at
the theatre at four o'clock for the chorus rehearsal, the expected blow had=
not
fallen. No steps had apparently been taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl
whose presence in the cast preyed on Mr. Goble's superstitious mind. But she
found her colleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding.
"Wait!" was the gloomy watchword of "The Rose of America&quo=
t;
chorus.
The rehearsal pas=
sed
off without event. It lasted until six o'clock, when Jill, the Cherub, and =
two
or three of the other girls went to snatch a hasty dinner before returning =
to
the theatre to make up. It was not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in aft=
er
the overexertion of the previous night, and it was too early for first-nigh=
t excitement
to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whose spirits seldom failed =
her,
was depressed, and the idea of an overhanging doom had grown. It seemed now=
to
be merely a question of speculating on the victim, and the conversation gave
Jill, as the last addition to the company and so the cause of swelling the
ranks of the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was glad=
when
it was time to go back to the theatre.
The moment she an=
d her
companions entered the dressing-room, it was made clear to them that the do=
om
had fallen. In a chair in the corner, all her pretence and affectation swept
away in a flood of tears, sat the unhappy Duchess, the center of a group of
girls anxious to console but limited in their ideas of consolation to an oc=
casional
pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief.
"It's tough,
honey!" somebody was saying as Jill came in.
Somebody else sai=
d it
was fierce, and a third girl declared it to be the limit. A fourth girl,
well-meaning but less helpful than she would have liked to be, was advising=
the
victim not to worry.
The story of the
disaster was brief and easily told. The Duchess, sailing in at the stage-do=
or,
had paused at the letter-box to see if Cuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman,
had sent her a good-luck telegram. He had, but his good wishes were
unfortunately neutralized by the fact that the very next letter in the box =
was
one from the management, crisp and to the point, informing the Duchess that=
her
services would not be required that night or thereafter. It was the subtle
meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "The Rose of
America" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had been timed.
"Poor Mae, if
she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her two weeks' notice or her
salary. But they can fire her without a cent just because she's only been
rehearsing and hasn't given a show!"
The Duchess burst
into fresh flood of tears.
"Don't you
worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who would have been in h=
er
element looking in on Job with Bildad the Shuhite and his friends. "Do=
n't
you worry!"
"It's
tough!" said the girl, who had adopted that form of verbal consolation=
.
"It's
fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective.
The other girl, w=
ith
an air of saying something new, repeated her statement that it was the limi=
t.
The Duchess cried forlornly throughout. She had needed this engagement badl=
y.
Chorus salaries are not stupendous, but it is possible to save money by mea=
ns
of them during a New York run, especially if you have spent three years in =
a milliner's
shop and can make your own clothes, as the Duchess, in spite of her air of
being turned out by Fifth Avenue modistes, could and did. She had been look=
ing
forward, now that this absurd piece was to be rewritten by someone who knew=
his
business and had a good chance of success, to putting by just those few dol=
lars
that make all the difference when you are embarking on married life. Cuthbe=
rt,
for all his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of the establ=
ishment
unsupported for at least another eighteen months; and this disaster meant t=
hat
the wedding would have to be postponed again. So the Duchess, abandoning th=
at
aristocratic manner criticized by some of her colleagues as
"up-stage" and by others as "Ritz-y," sat in her chair =
and
consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as they were offered to her.
Jill had been the
only girl in the room who had spoken no word of consolation. This was not
because she was not sorry for the Duchess. She had never been sorrier for a=
ny
one in her life. The pathos of that swift descent from haughtiness to misery
had bitten deep into her sensitive heart. But she revolted at the idea of
echoing the banal words of the others. Words were no good, she thought, as =
she set
her little teeth and glared at an absent management,--a management just abo=
ut
now presumably distending itself with a luxurious dinner at one of the big
hotels. Deeds were what she demanded. All her life she had been a girl of
impulsive action, and she wanted to act impulsively now. She was in much the
same Berserk mood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of Bill the parr=
ot
on the occasion of his dispute with Henry of London. The fighting spirit wh=
ich
had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had come back in full
measure.
"What are you
going to do?" she cried. "Aren't you going to do something?"=
Do? The members of
"The Rose of America" ensemble looked doubtfully at one another. =
Do?
It had not occurred to them that there was anything to be done. These things
happened, and you regretted them, but as for doing anything, well, what cou=
ld
you do?
Jill's face was w=
hite
and her eyes were flaming. She dominated the roomful of girls like a little
Napoleon. The change in her startled them. Hitherto they had always looked =
on
her as rather an unusually quiet girl. She had always made herself
unobtrusively pleasant to them all. They all liked her. But they had never
suspected her of possessing this militant quality. Nobody spoke, but there =
was
a general stir. She had flung a new idea broadcast, and it was beginning to
take root. Do something? Well, if it came to that, why not?
"We ought al=
l to
refuse to go on tonight unless they let her go on!" Jill declared.
The stir became a
movement. Enthusiasm is catching, and every girl is at heart a rebel. And t=
he
idea was appealing to the imagination. Refuse to give a show on the opening
night! Had a chorus ever done such a thing? They trembled on the verge of
making history.
"Strike?&quo=
t;
quavered somebody at the back.
"Yes,
strike!" cried Jill.
"Hooray! Tha=
t's
the thtuff!" shouted the Cherub, and turned the scale. She was a popul=
ar
girl, and her adherence to the Cause confirmed the doubters.
"Thtrike!"
"Strike!
Strike!"
Jill turned to the
Duchess, who had been gaping amazedly at the demonstration. She no longer w=
ept,
but she seemed in a dream.
"Dress and g=
et
ready to go on," Jill commanded. "We'll all dress and get ready t=
o go
on. Then I'll go and find Mr Goble and tell him what we mean to do. And, if=
he
doesn't give in, we'll stay here in this room, and there won't be a
performance!"
3.
Mr Goble, with a
Derby hat on the back of his head and an unlighted cigar in the corner of h=
is
mouth, was superintending the erection of the first act set when Jill found
him. He was standing with his back to the safety-curtain glowering at a blue
canvas, supposed to represent one of those picturesque summer skies which y=
ou
get at the best places on Long Island. Jill, coming down stage from the sta=
ircase
that led to the dressing-room, interrupted his line of vision.
"Get out of =
the
light!" bellowed Mr Goble, always a man of direct speech, adding
"Damn you!" for good measure.
"Please move=
to
one side," interpreted the stage-director. "Mr Goble is looking at
the set."
The head carpente=
r,
who completed the little group, said nothing. Stage carpenters always say
nothing. Long association with fussy directors has taught them that the only
policy to pursue on opening nights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap
themselves up in it, and not emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone
off to worry somebody else.
"It don't lo=
ok
right!" said Mr Goble, cocking his head on one side.
"I see what =
you
mean, Mr Goble," assented the stage-director obsequiously. "It has
perhaps a little too much--er--not quite enough--yes, I see what you
mean!"
"It's
too--damn--BLUE!" rasped Mr Goble, impatient of this vacillating
criticism. "That's what's the matter with it."
The head carpenter
abandoned the silent policy of a lifetime. He felt impelled to utter. He wa=
s a
man who, when not at the theatre, spent most of his time in bed, reading
all-fiction magazines: but it so happened that once, last summer, he had
actually seen the sky; and he considered that this entitled him to speak al=
most
as a specialist on the subject.
"The sky is
blue!" he observed huskily. "Yessir! I seen it!"
He passed into the
silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse, stopped up his mouth with a
piece of chewing-gum.
Mr Goble regarded=
the
silver-tongued orator wrathfully. He was not accustomed to chatter-boxes
arguing with him like this. He would probably have said something momentous=
and
crushing, but at this point Jill intervened.
"Mr Goble.&q=
uot;
The manager swung
round on her.
"What is
it?"
It is sad to think
how swiftly affection can change to dislike in this world. Two weeks before=
, Mr
Goble had looked on Jill with favor. She had seemed good in his eyes. But t=
hat
refusal of hers to lunch with him, followed by a refusal some days later to
take a bit of supper somewhere, had altered his views on feminine charm. If=
it
had been left to him, as most things were about his theatre, to decide whic=
h of
the thirteen girls should be dismissed, he would undoubtedly have selected
Jill. But at this stage in the proceedings there was the unfortunate necess=
ity
of making concessions to the temperamental Johnson Miller. Mr Goble was awa=
re
that the dance-director's services would be badly needed in the re-arrangem=
ent
of the numbers during the coming week or so, and he knew that there were a
dozen managers waiting eagerly to welcome him if he threw up his present jo=
b,
so he had been obliged to approach him in quite a humble spirit and enquire=
which
of his female chorus could be most easily spared. And, as the Duchess had a
habit of carrying her haughty languor onto the stage and employing it as a
substitute for the chorea which was Mr. Miller's ideal, the dancer-director=
had
chosen her. To Mr Goble's dislike of Jill, therefore, was added now somethi=
ng
of the fury of the baffled potentate.
"'Jer
want?" he demanded.
"Mr Goble is
extremely busy," said the stage-director. "Ex-tremely."
A momentary doubt=
as
to the best way of approaching her subject had troubled Jill on her way
downstairs, but, now that she was on the battle-field confronting the enemy,
she found herself cool, collected, and full of a cold rage which steeled her
nerves without confusing her mind.
"I came to a=
sk
you to let Mae D'Arcy go on tonight."
"Who the hel=
l's
Mae D'Arcy?" Mr Goble broke off to bellow at a scene-shifter who was
depositing the wall of Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke's Long Island residence too =
far
down stage. "Not there, you fool! Higher up!"
"You gave her
her notice this evening," said Jill.
"Well, what
about it?"
"We want you=
to
withdraw it."
"Who's
'we'?"
"The other g=
irls
and myself."
Mr Goble jerked h=
is
head so violently that the Derby hat flew off, to be picked up, dusted, and
restored by the stage-director.
"Oh, so you
don't like it? Well, you know what you can do . . ."
"Yes," =
said
Jill, "we do. We are going to strike."
"What!"=
"If you don't
let Mae go on, we shan't go on. There won't be a performance tonight, unless
you like to give one without a chorus."
"Are you
crazy!"
"Perhaps. But
we're quite unanimous."
Mr Goble, like mo=
st
theatrical managers, was not good at words of over two syllables.
"You're
what?"
"We've talke=
d it
over, and we've all decided to do what I said."
Mr Goble's hat sh=
ot
off again, and gambolled away into the wings, with the stage-director bound=
ing
after it like a retriever.
"Whose idea's
this?" demanded Mr Goble. His eyes were a little foggy, for his brain =
was
adjusting itself but slowly to the novel situation.
"Mine."=
"Oh, yours! I
thought as much!"
"Well,"
said Jill, "I'll go back and tell them that you will not do what we as=
k.
We will keep our make-up on in case you change your mind."
She turned away.<= o:p>
"Come
back!"
Jill proceeded to=
ward
the staircase. As she went, a husky voice spoke in her ear.
"Go to it, k=
id!
You're all right!"
The head-carpenter
had broken his Trappist vows twice in a single evening, a thing which had n=
ot
happened to him since the night three years ago, when, sinking wearily onto=
a
seat in a dark corner for a bit of a rest, he found that one of his assista=
nts
had placed a pot of red paint there.
4.
To Mr Goble,
fermenting and full of strange oaths, entered Johnson Miller. The
dance-director was always edgey on first nights, and during the foregoing
conversation had been flitting about the stage like a white-haired moth. His
deafness had kept him in complete ignorance that there was anything untoward
afoot, and he now approached Mr Goble with his watch in his hand.
"Eight
twenty-five," he observed. "Time those girls were on stage."=
Mr Goble, glad of=
a concrete
target for his wrath, cursed him in about two hundred and fifty rich and
well-selected words.
"Huh?" =
said
Mr Miller, hand to ear.
Mr Goble repeated=
the
last hundred and eleven words, the pick of the bunch.
"Can't
hear!" said Mr Miller, regretfully. "Got a cold."
The grave danger =
that
Mr Goble, a thick-necked man, would undergo some sort of a stroke was avert=
ed
by the presence-of-mind of the stage-director, who, returning with the hat,
presented it like a bouquet to his employer, and then his hands being now
unoccupied, formed them into a funnel and through this flesh-and-blood
megaphone endeavored to impart the bad news.
"The girls s=
ay
they won't go on!"
Mr Miller nodded.=
"I said it w=
as
time they were on."
"They're on
strike!"
"It's not,&q=
uot;
said Mr Miller austerely, "what they like, it's what they're paid for.
They ought to be on stage. We should be ringing up in two minutes."
The stage director
drew another breath, then thought better of it. He had a wife and children,
and, if dadda went under with apoplexy, what became of the home, civilizati=
on's
most sacred product? He relaxed the muscles of his diaphragm, and reached f=
or
pencil and paper.
Mr Miller inspect=
ed
the message, felt for his spectacle-case, found it, opened it, took out his
glasses, replaced the spectacle-case, felt for his handkerchief, polished t=
he
glasses, replaced the handkerchief, put the glasses on, and read. A blank l=
ook
came into his face.
"Why?" =
he
enquired.
The stage directo=
r,
with a nod of the head intended to imply that he must be patient and all wo=
uld
come right in the future, recovered the paper, and scribbled another senten=
ce.
Mr Miller perused it.
"Because Mae
D'Arcy has got her notice?" he queried, amazed. "But the girl can=
't
dance a step."
The stage directo=
r, by
means of a wave of the hand, a lifting of both eyebrows, and a wrinkling of=
the
nose, replied that the situation, unreasonable as it might appear to the
thinking man, was as he had stated and must be faced. What, he
enquired--through the medium of a clever drooping of the mouth and a shrug =
of
the shoulders--was to be done about it?
Mr Miller remained
for a moment in meditation.
"I'll go and
talk to them," he said.
He flitted off, a=
nd
the stage director leaned back against the asbestos curtain. He was exhaust=
ed,
and his throat was in agony, but nevertheless he was conscious of a feeling=
of
quiet happiness. His life had been lived in the shadow of the constant fear
that some day Mr Goble might dismiss him. Should that disaster occur, he fe=
lt, there
was always a future for him in the movies.
Scarcely had Mr
Miller disappeared on his peace-making errand, when there was a noise like a
fowl going through a quickset hedge, and Mr Saltzburg, brandishing his bato=
n as
if he were conducting an unseen orchestra, plunged through the scenery at t=
he
left upper entrance and charged excitedly down the stage. Having taken his
musicians twice through the overture, he had for ten minutes been sitting in
silence, waiting for the curtain to go up. At last, his emotional nature cr=
acking
under the strain of this suspense, he had left his conductor's chair and
plunged down under the stage by way of the musician's bolthole to ascertain
what was causing the delay.
"What is it?
What is it? What is it? What is it?" enquired Mr Saltzburg. "I wa=
it
and wait and wait and wait and wait. . . . We cannot play the overture agai=
n.
What is it? What has happened?"
Mr Goble, that
overwrought soul, had betaken himself to the wings, where he was striding up
and down with his hands behind his back, chewing his cigar. The stage direc=
tor
braced himself once more to the task of explanation.
"The girls h=
ave
struck!"
Mr Saltzburg blin=
ked
through his glasses.
"The
girls?" he repeated blankly.
"Oh, damn
it!" cried the stage director, his patience at last giving way. "=
You
know what a girl is, don't you?"
"They have
what?"
"Struck! Wal=
ked
out on us! Refused to go on!"
Mr Saltzburg reel=
ed
under the blow.
"But it is
impossible! Who is to sing the opening chorus?"
In the presence of
one to whom he could relieve his mind without fear of consequences, the sta=
ge
director became savagely jocular.
"That's all
arranged," he said. "We're going to dress the carpenters in skirt=
s.
The audience won't notice anything wrong."
"Should I sp=
eak
to Mr Goble?" queried Mr Saltzburg doubtfully.
"Yes, if you
don't value your life," returned the stage director.
Mr Saltzburg
pondered.
"I will go a=
nd
speak to the children," he said. "I will talk to them. They know =
me!
I will make them be reasonable."
He bustled off in=
the
direction taken by Mr Miller, his coattails flying behind him. The stage
director, with a tired sigh, turned to face Wally, who had come in through =
the
iron pass-door from the auditorium.
"Hullo!"
said Wally cheerfully. "Going strong? How's everybody at home? Fine! S=
o am
I! By the way, am I wrong or did I hear something about a theatrical
entertainment of some sort here tonight?" He looked about him at the e=
mpty
stage. In the wings, on the prompt side, could be discerned the flannel-clad
forms of the gentlemanly members of the male ensemble, all dressed up for M=
rs
Stuyvesant van Dyke's tennis party. One or two of the principals were stand=
ing perplexedly
in the lower entrance. The O. P. side had been given over by general consen=
t to
Mr Goble for his perambulations. Every now and then he would flash into view
through an opening in the scenery. "I understood that tonight was the
night for the great revival of comic opera. Where are the comics, and why
aren't they opping?"
The stage director
repeated his formula once more.
"The girls h=
ave
struck!"
"So have the
clocks," said Wally. "It's past nine."
"The chorus
refuse to go on."
"No, really!
Just artistic loathing of the rotten piece, or is there some other
reason?"
"They're sore
because one of them has been given her notice, and they say they won't give=
a
show unless she's taken back. They've struck. That Mariner girl started
it."
"She did!&qu=
ot;
Wally's interest became keener. "She would!" he said approvingly.
"She's a heroine!"
"Little devi=
l! I
never liked that girl!"
"Now
there," said Wally, "is just the point on which we differ. I have
always liked her, and I've known her all my life. So, shipmate, if you have=
any
derogatory remarks to make about Miss Mariner, keep them where they
belong--there!" He prodded the other sharply in the stomach. He was
smiling pleasantly, but the stage director, catching his eye, decided that =
his
advice was good and should be followed. It is just as bad for the home if t=
he
head of the family gets his neck broken as if he succumbs to apoplexy.
"You surely
aren't on their side?" he said.
"Me!" s=
aid
Wally. "Of course I am. I'm always on the side of the down-trodden and
oppressed. If you know of a dirtier trick than firing a girl just before the
opening, so that they won't have to pay her two weeks' salary, mention it. =
Till
you do, I'll go on believing that it is the limit. Of course I'm on the gir=
ls'
side. I'll make them a speech if they want me to, or head the procession wi=
th a
banner if they are going to parade down the boardwalk. I'm for 'em, Father
Abraham, a hundred thousand strong. And then a few! If you want my consider=
ed
opinion, our old friend Goble has asked for it and got it. And I'm
glad--glad--glad, if you don't mind my quoting Pollyanna for a moment. I ho=
pe
it chokes him!"
"You'd better
not let him hear you talking like that!"
"An contrair=
e,
as we say in the Gay City, I'm going to make a point of letting him hear me
talk like that! Adjust the impression that I fear any Goble in shining armo=
r,
because I don't. I propose to speak my mind to him. I would beard him in his
lair, if he had a beard. Well, I'll clean-shave him in his lair. That will =
be
just as good. But hist! whom have we here? Tell me, do you see the same thi=
ng I
see?"
Like the vanguard=
of
a defeated army, Mr Saltzburg was coming dejectedly across the stage.
"Well?"
said the stage-director.
"They would =
not
listen to me," said Mr Saltzburg brokenly. "The more I talked, the
more they did not listen!" He winced at a painful memory. "Miss
Trevor stole my baton, and then they all lined up and sang the 'Star-Spangl=
ed
Banner'!"
"Not the
words?" cried Wally incredulously. "Don't tell me they knew the
words!"
"Mr Miller is
still up there, arguing with them. But it will be of no use. What shall we
do?" asked Mr Saltzburg helplessly. "We ought to have rung up hal=
f an
hour ago. What shall we do-oo-oo?"
"We must go =
and
talk to Goble," said Wally. "Something has got to be settled quic=
k.
When I left, the audience was getting so impatient that I thought he was go=
ing
to walk out on us. He's one of those nasty, determined-looking men. So come
along!"
Mr Goble, interce= pted as he was about to turn for another walk up-stage, eyed the deputation sour= ly and put the same question that the stage director had put to Mr Saltzburg.<= o:p>
"Well?"=
Wally came briskl=
y to
the point.
"You'll have=
to
give in," he said, "or else go and make a speech to the audience,=
the
burden of which will be that they can have their money back by applying at =
the
box-office. These Joans of Arc have got you by the short hairs!"
"I won't give
in!"
"Then give
out!" said Wally. "Or pay out, if you prefer it. Trot along and t=
ell
the audience that the four dollars fifty in the house will be refunded.&quo=
t;
Mr Goble gnawed h=
is
cigar.
"I've been in
the show business fifteen years . . ."
"I know. And
this sort of thing has never happened to you before. One gets new
experiences."
Mr Goble cocked h=
is
cigar at a fierce angle, and glared at Wally. Something told him that Wally=
's
sympathies were not wholly with him.
"They can't =
do
this sort of thing to me," he growled.
"Well, they =
are
doing it to someone, aren't they," said Wally, "and, if it's not =
you,
who is it?"
"I've a damn=
ed
good mind to fire them all!"
"A corking i=
dea!
I can't see a single thing wrong with it except that it would hang up the
production for another five weeks and lose you your bookings and cost you a
week's rent of this theatre for nothing and mean having all the dresses made
over and lead to all your principals going off and getting other jobs. These
trifling things apart, we may call the suggestion a bright one."
"You talk too
damn much!" said Mr Goble, eyeing him with distaste.
"Well, go on,
you say something. Something sensible."
"It is a very
serious situation . . ." began the stage director.
"Oh, shut
up!" said Mr Goble.
The stage director
subsided into his collar.
"I cannot pl=
ay
the overture again," protested Mr Saltzburg. "I cannot!"
At this point Mr
Miller appeared. He was glad to see Mr Goble. He had been looking for him, =
for
he had news to impart.
"The
girls," said Mr Miller, "have struck! They won't go on!"
Mr Goble, with the
despairing gesture of one who realizes the impotence of words, dashed off f=
or
his favorite walk up stage. Wally took out his watch.
"Six seconds=
and
a bit," he said approvingly, as the manager returned. "A very good
performance. I should like to time you over the course in running-kit."=
;
The interval for
reflection, brief as it had been, had apparently enabled Mr Goble to come t=
o a
decision.
"Go," he
said to the stage director, "and tell 'em that fool of a D'Arcy girl c=
an
play. We've got to get that curtain up."
"Yes, Mr
Goble."
The stage director
galloped off.
"Get back to
your place," said the manager to Mr Saltzburg, "and play the over=
ture
again."
"Again!"=
;
"Perhaps they
didn't hear it the first two times," said Wally.
Mr Goble watched =
Mr
Saltzburg out of sight. Then he turned to Wally.
"That damned
Mariner girl was at the bottom of this! She started the whole thing! She to=
ld
me so. Well, I'll settle her! She goes tomorrow!"
"Wait a
minute," said Wally. "Wait one minute! Bright as it is, that idea=
is
out!"
"What the de=
vil
has it got to do with you?"
"Only this,
that, if you fire Miss Mariner, I take that neat script which I've prepared=
and
I tear it into a thousand fragments. Or nine hundred. Anyway, I tear it. Mi=
ss
Mariner opens in New York, or I pack up my work and leave."
Mr Goble's green =
eyes
glowed.
"Oh, you're
stuck on her, are you?" he sneered. "I see!"
"Listen, dear
heart," said Wally, gripping the manager's arm, "I can see that y=
ou
are on the verge of introducing personalities into this very pleasant little
chat. Resist the impulse! Why not let your spine stay where it is instead of
having it kicked up through your hat? Keep to the main issue. Does Miss Mar=
iner
open in New York or does she lot?"
There was a tense
silence. Mr Goble permitted himself a swift review of his position. He would
have liked to do many things to Wally, beginning with ordering him out of t=
he
theatre, but prudence restrained him. He wanted Wally's work. He needed Wal=
ly
in his business: and, in the theatre, business takes precedence of personal=
feelings.
"All
right!" he growled reluctantly.
"That's a
promise," said Wally. "I'll see that you keep it." He looked
over his shoulder. The stage was filled with gayly-colored dresses. The
mutineers had returned to duty. "Well, I'll be getting along. I'm rath=
er
sorry we agreed to keep clear of personalities, because I should have liked=
to
say that, if ever they have a skunk-show at Madison Square Garden, you ough=
t to
enter--and win the blue ribbon. Still, of course, under our agreement my li=
ps
are sealed, and I can't even hint at it. Good-bye. See you later, I suppose=
?"
Mr Goble, giving a
creditable imitation of a living statue, was plucked from his thoughts by a
hand upon his arm. It was Mr Miller, whose unfortunate ailment had prevented
him from keeping abreast of the conversation.
"What did he
say?" enquired Mr Miller, interested. "I didn't hear what he
said!"
Mr Goble made no
effort to inform him.
1.
Otis Pilkington h=
ad
left Atlantic City two hours after the conference which had followed the dr=
ess
rehearsal, firmly resolved never to go near "The Rose of America"
again. He had been wounded in his finest feelings. There had been a moment,
when Mr Goble had given him the choice between having the piece rewritten a=
nd
cancelling the production altogether, when he had inclined to the heroic
course. But for one thing, Mr Pilkington would have defied the manager, ref=
used
to allow his script to be touched, and removed the play from his hands. That
one thing was the fact that, up to the day of the dress rehearsal, the expe=
nses
of the production had amounted to the appalling sum of thirty-two thousand
eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to
come out of Mr Pilkington's pocket. The figures, presented to him in a neat=
ly typewritten
column stretching over two long sheets of paper, had stunned him. He had ha=
d no
notion that musical plays cost so much. The costumes alone had come to ten
thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents, and somehow t=
hat
odd fifty cents annoyed Otis Pilkington as much as anything on the list. A =
dark
suspicion that Mr Goble, who had seen to all the executive end of the busin=
ess,
had a secret arrangement with the costumer whereby he received a private
rebate, deepened his gloom. Why, for ten thousand six hundred and sixty-thr=
ee
dollars and fifty cents you could dress the whole female population of New =
York
State and have a bit left over for Connecticut. So thought Mr Pilkington, a=
s he
read the bad news in the train. He only ceased to brood upon the high cost =
of costuming
when in the next line but one there smote his eye an item of four hundred a=
nd ninety-eight
dollars for "Clothing." Clothing! Weren't costumes clothing? Why
should he have to pay twice over for the same thing? Mr Pilkington was just
raging over this, when something lower down in the column caught his eye. It
was the words:--
Clothing . . . 187.45
At this Otis
Pilkington uttered a stifled cry, so sharp and so anguished that an old lad=
y in
the next seat, who was drinking a glass of milk, dropped it and had to refu=
nd
the railway company thirty-five cents for breakages. For the remainder of t=
he
journey she sat with one eye warily on Mr Pilkington, waiting for his next
move.
This misadventure
quieted Otis Pilkington down, if it did not soothe him. He returned blushin=
gly
to a perusal of his bill of costs, nearly every line of which contained some
item that infuriated and dismayed him. "Shoes" (
213.50) he could
understand, but what on earth was "Academy. Rehl.
105.50"? What
was "Cuts . . .
15"? And wha=
t in
the name of everything infernal was this item for "Frames," in wh=
ich mysterious
luxury he had apparently indulged to the extent of ninety-four dollars and
fifty cents? "Props" occurred on the list no fewer than seventeen
times. Whatever his future, at whatever poor-house he might spend his decli=
ning
years, he was supplied with enough props to last his lifetime.
Otis Pilkington
stared blankly at the scenery that fitted past the train winds. (Scenery! T=
here
had been two charges for scenery! "Friedmann, Samuel . . . Scenery . .=
.
3711" and
"Unitt and Wickes . . . Scenery . . .
2120"). He w= as suffering the torments of the ruined gamester at the roulette-table. Thirty= -two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents! And he was out of pocket ten thousand in addition from the check he had handed over tw= o days ago to Uncle Chris as his share of the investment of starting Jill in the motion-pictures. It was terrible! It deprived one of the power of thought.<= o:p>
The power of thou=
ght,
however, returned to Mr Pilkington almost immediately: for, remembering sud=
denly
that Roland Trevis had assured him that no musical production, except one of
those elaborate girl-shows with a chorus of ninety, could possibly cost more
than fifteen thousand dollars at an outside figure, he began to think about
Roland Trevis, and continued to think about him until the train pulled into=
the
Pennsylvania Station.
For a week or more
the stricken financier confined himself mostly to his rooms, where he sat
smoking cigarettes, gazing at Japanese prints, and trying not to think about
"props" and "rehl." Then, gradually, the almost maternal
yearning to see his brain-child once more, which can never be wholly crushed
out of a young dramatist, returned to him--faintly at first, then getting
stronger by degrees till it could no longer be resisted. True, he knew that
when he beheld it, the offspring of his brain would have been mangled almos=
t out
of recognition, but that did not deter him. The mother loves her crippled
child, and the author of a musical fantasy loves his musical fantasy, even =
if
rough hands have changed it into a musical comedy and all that remains of h=
is
work is the opening chorus and a scene which the assassins have overlooked =
at
the beginning of act two. Otis Pilkington, having instructed his Japanese v=
alet
to pack a few simple necessaries in a suitcase, took a cab to the Grand Cen=
tral
Station and caught an afternoon train for Rochester, where his recollection=
of
the route planned for the tour told him "The Rose of America" wou=
ld
now be playing.
Looking into his =
club
on the way, to cash a check, the first person he encountered was Freddie Ro=
oke.
"Good gracious!" said Otis Pilkington. "What are you doing here?"<= o:p>
Freddie looked up
dully from his reading. The abrupt stoppage of his professional career--his
life-work, one might almost say--had left Freddie at a very loose end: and =
so
hollow did the world seem to him at the moment, so uniformly futile all its
so-called allurements, that, to pass the time, he had just been trying to r=
ead
the National Geographic Magazine.
"Hullo!"=
; he
said. "Well, might as well be here as anywhere, what?" he replied=
to
the other's question.
"But why are=
n't
you playing?"
"They sacked
me!" Freddie lit a cigarette in the sort of way in which the strong,
silent, middle-aged man on the stage lights his at the end of act two when =
he
has relinquished the heroine to his youthful rival. "They've changed my
part to a bally Scotchman! Well, I mean to say, I couldn't play a bally
Scotchman!"
Mr Pilkington gro=
aned
in spirit. Of all the characters in his musical fantasy on which he prided
himself, that of Lord Finchley was his pet. And he had been burked, murdere=
d,
blotted out, in order to make room for a bally Scotchman!
"The charact=
er's
called 'The McWhustle of McWhustle' now!" said Freddie sombrely.
The McWhustle of
McWhustle! Mr Pilkington almost abandoned his trip to Rochester on receiving
this devastating piece of information.
"He comes on=
in
act one in kilts!"
"In kilts! At
Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke's lawn-party! On Long Island!"
"It isn't Mrs
Stuyvesant van Dyke any longer, either," said Freddie. "She's been
changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer."
"A pickle
manufacturer!"
"Yes. They s=
aid
it ought to be a comedy part."
If agony had not
caused Mr Pilkington to clutch for support at the back of a chair, he would
undoubtedly have wrung his hands.
"But it was a
comedy part!" he wailed. "It was full of the subtlest, most delic=
ate
satire on Society. They were delighted with it at Newport! Oh, this is too
much! I shall make a strong protest! I shall insist on these parts being ke=
pt
as I wrote them! I shall . . . I must be going at once, or I shall miss my
train." He paused at the door. "How was business in Baltimore?&qu=
ot;
"Rotten!&quo=
t;
said Freddie, and returned to his National Geographic Magazine.
Otis Pilkington
tottered into his cab. He was shattered by what he had heard. They had
massacred his beautiful play, and, doing so, had not even made a success of=
it
by their own sordid commercial lights. Business at Baltimore had been rotte=
n!
That meant more expense, further columns of figures with "frames"=
and
"rehl" in front of them! He staggered into the station.
"Hey!"
cried the taxi-driver.
Otis Pilkington
turned.
"Sixty-five
cents, mister, if you please! Forgetting I'm not your private shovoor, wasn=
't
you?"
Mr Pilkington gave
him a dollar. Money--money! Life was just one long round of paying out and
paying out.
2.
The day which Mr
Pilkington had selected for his visit to the provinces was a Tuesday. "=
;The
Rose of America" had opened at Rochester on the previous night, after a
week at Atlantic City in its original form and a week at Baltimore in what
might be called its second incarnation. Business had been bad in Atlantic C=
ity
and no better in Baltimore, and a meager first-night house at Rochester had=
given
the piece a cold reception, which had put the finishing touches to the
depression of the company in spite of the fact that the Rochester critics, =
like
those of Baltimore, had written kindly of the play. One of the maxims of the
theatre is that "out-of-town notices don't count," and the company
had refused to be cheered by them.
It is to be doubt=
ed,
however, if even crowded houses would have aroused much response from the
principals and chorus of "The Rose of America." For two weeks wit=
hout
a break they had been working under forced draught, and they were weary in =
body
and spirit. The new principals had had to learn parts in exactly half the t=
ime
usually given for that purpose, and the chorus, after spending five weeks a=
ssimilating
one set of steps and groupings, had been compelled to forget them and rehea=
rse
an entirely new set. From the morning after the first performance at Atlant=
ic
City, they had not left the theatre except for sketchy half-hour meals.
Jill, standing
listlessly in the wings while the scene-shifters arranged the second act se=
t,
was aware of Wally approaching from the direction of the pass-door.
"Miss Marine=
r, I
believe?" said Wally. "I suppose you know you look perfectly
wonderful in that dress? All Rochester's talking about it, and there is some
idea of running excursion trains from Troy and Utica. A great stir it has
made!"
Jill smiled. Wally
was like a tonic to her during these days of overwork. He seemed to be enti=
rely
unaffected by the general depression, a fact which he attributed himself to=
the
happy accident of being in a position to sit back and watch the others toil.
But in reality Jill knew that he was working as hard as any one. He was wor=
king
all the time, changing scenes, adding lines, tinkering with lyrics, smoothi=
ng
over principals whose nerves had become strained by the incessant rehearsin=
g,
keeping within bounds Mr Goble's passion for being the big noise about the
theatre. His cheerfulness was due to the spirit that was in him, and Jill
appreciated it. She had come to feel very close to Wally since the driving =
rush
of making over "The Rose of America" had begun.
"They seemed
quite calm tonight," she said. "I believe half of them were
asleep."
"They're alw=
ays
like that in Rochester. They cloak their deeper feelings. They wear the mas=
k.
But you can tell from the glassy look in their eyes that they are really
seething inwardly. But what I came round about was--(a)--to give you this
letter . . ."
Jill took the let=
ter,
and glanced at the writing. It was from Uncle Chris. She placed it on the a=
xe
over the fire-buckets for perusal later.
"The man at =
the
box-office gave it to me," said Wally, "when I looked in there to
find out how much money there was in the house tonight. The sum was so small
that he had to whisper it."
"I'm afraid =
the
piece isn't a success."
"Nonsense! Of
course it is! We're doing fine. That brings me to section (b) of my discour=
se.
I met poor old Pilkington in the lobby, and he said exactly what you have j=
ust
said, only at greater length."
"Is Mr Pilki=
ngton
here?"
"He appears =
to
have run down on the afternoon train to have a look at the show. He is catc=
hing
the next train back to New York! Whenever I meet him, he always seems to be
dashing off to catch the next train back to New York! Poor chap! Have you e=
ver
done a murder? If you haven't, don't! I know exactly what it feels like, an=
d it
feels rotten! After two minutes conversation with Pilkington, I could sympa=
thize
with Macbeth when he chatted with Banquo. He said I had killed his play. He
nearly wept, and he drew such a moving picture of a poor helpless musical
fantasy being lured into a dark alley by thugs and there slaughtered that he
almost had me in tears too. I felt like a beetle-browed brute with a drippi=
ng
knife and hands imbrued with innocent gore."
"Poor Mr
Pilkington!"
"Once more y=
ou
say exactly what he said, only more crisply. I comforted him as well as I
could, told him all for the best and so on, and he flung the box-office
receipts in my face and said that the piece was as bad a failure commercial=
ly
as it was artistically. I couldn't say anything to that, seeing what a house
we've got tonight, except to bid him look out to the horizon where the sun =
will
shortly shine. In other words, I told him that business was about to buck u=
p and
that later on he would be going about the place with a sprained wrist from
clipping coupons. But he refused to be cheered, cursed me some more for rui=
ning
his piece, and ended by begging me to buy his share of it cheap."
"You aren't
going to?"
"No, I am no=
t--but
simply and solely for the reason that, after that fiasco in London, I raise=
d my
right hand--thus--and swore an oath that never, as long as I lived, would I
again put up a cent for a production, were it the most obvious cinch on ear=
th.
I'm gun-shy. But if he does happen to get hold of any one with a sporting
disposition and a few thousands to invest, that person will make a fortune.
This piece is going to be a gold-mine."
Jill looked at hi=
m in
surprise. With anybody else but Wally she would have attributed this confid=
ence
to author's vanity. But with Wally, she felt, the fact that the piece, as
played now, was almost entirely his own work did not count. He viewed it
dispassionately, and she could not understand why, in the face of half-empty
houses, he should have such faith in it.
"But what ma=
kes
you think so? We've been doing awfully badly so far."
Wally nodded.
"And we shal=
l do
awfully badly in Syracuse the last half of this week. And why? For one thin=
g,
because the show isn't a show at all at present. That's what you can't get
these fatheads like Goble to understand. All they go by is the box-office. =
Why
should people flock to pay for seats for what are practically dress rehears=
als
of an unknown play? Half the principals have had to get up in their parts in
two weeks, and they haven't had time to get anything out of them. They are
groping for their lines all the time. The girls can't let themselves go in =
the
numbers, because they are wondering if they are going to remember the steps.
The show hasn't had time to click together yet. It's just ragged. Take a lo=
ok
at it in another two weeks! I know! I don't say musical comedy is a very lo=
fty
form of art, but still there's a certain amount of science about it. If you=
go
in for it long enough, you learn the tricks, and take it from me that if you
have a good cast and some catchy numbers, it's almost impossible not to hav=
e a
success. We've got an excellent cast now, and the numbers are fine. The thi=
ng
can't help being a hit.
"There's ano=
ther
thing to think of. It so happens that we shall go into New York with
practically nothing against us. Usually you have half a dozen musical succe=
sses
to compete with, but just at the moment there's nothing. But the chief reas=
on
for not being discouraged by bad houses so far is that we've been playing b=
ad towns.
Every town on the road has its special character. Some are good show-towns,
others are bad. Nobody knows why. Detroit will take anything. So will
Washington. Whereas Cincinnati wants something very special. Where have we
been? Atlantic City, Baltimore, and here. Atlantic City is a great place to
play in the summer and for a couple of weeks round about Easter. Also at
Christmas. But for the rest of the year, no. Too many new shows are tried o=
ut
there. It makes the inhabitants wary. Baltimore is good for a piece with a =
New
York reputation, but they don't want new pieces. Rochester and Syracuse are
always bad. 'Follow the Girl' died a hideous death in Rochester, and it wen=
t on
and played two years in New York and one in London. I tell you--as I tried =
to
tell Pilkington, only he wouldn't listen--that this show is all right. Ther=
e's
a fortune in it for somebody. But I suppose Pilkington is now sitting in the
smoking-car of an east-bound train, trying to get the porter to accept his
share in the piece instead of a tip!"
If Otis Pilkington
was not actually doing that, he was doing something like it. Sunk in gloom,=
he
bumped up and down on an uncomfortable seat, wondering why he had ever taken
the trouble to make the trip to Rochester. He had found exactly what he had
expected to find, a mangled caricature of his brain-child playing to a hous=
e half
empty and wholly indifferent. The only redeeming feature, he thought
vindictively, as he remembered what Roland Trevis had said about the cost of
musical productions, was the fact that the new numbers were undoubtedly bet=
ter
than those which his collaborator had originally supplied.
And "The Ros=
e of
America," after a disheartening Wednesday matinee and a not much better
reception on the Wednesday night, packed its baggage and moved to Syracuse,
where it failed just as badly. Then for another two weeks it wandered on fr=
om
one small town to another, up and down New York State and through the doldr=
ums
of Connecticut, tacking to and fro like a storm-battered ship, till finally=
the
astute and discerning citizens of Hartford welcomed it with such a reception
that hardened principals stared at each other in a wild surmise, wondering =
if
these things could really be: and a weary chorus forgot its weariness and g=
ave
encore after encore with a snap and vim which even Mr Johnson Miller was
obliged to own approximated to something like it. Nothing to touch the work=
of
his choruses of the old days, of course, but nevertheless fair, quite fair.=
The spirits of the
company revived. Optimism reigned. Principals smiled happily and said they =
had
believed in the thing all along. The ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble
chattered contentedly of a year's run in New York. And the citizens of Hart=
ford
fought for seats, and, if they could not get seats, stood up at the back.
Of these things O=
tis
Pilkington was not aware. He had sold his interest in the piece two weeks a=
go
for ten thousand dollars to a lawyer acting for some client unknown, and was
glad to feel that he had saved something out of the wreck.
1.
The violins soare=
d to
one last high note: the bassoon uttered a final moan: the pensive person at=
the
end of the orchestra-pit, just under Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's box, whose d=
uty
it was to slam the drum at stated intervals, gave that much-enduring instru=
ment
a concluding wallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to
stray in the direction of cooling drinks. Mr Saltzburg lowered the baton wh=
ich
he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down and mopped his
forehead. The curtain fell on the first act of "The Rose of America,&q=
uot;
and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out from all over the Gotham
Theatre, which was crammed from floor to roof with that heterogeneous
collection of humanity which makes up the audience of a New York opening
performance. The applause continued like the breaking of waves on a stony
beach. The curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. An us=
her,
stealing down the central aisle, gave to Mr Saltzburg an enormous bouquet of
American Beauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with=
a brilliant
smile and a bow nicely combining humility with joyful surprise. The applaus=
e,
which had begun to slacken, gathered strength again. It was a superb bouque=
t,
nearly as big as Mr Saltzburg himself. It had cost the prima donna close on=
a
hundred dollars that morning at Thorley's, but it was worth every cent of t=
he
money.
The house-lights =
went
up. The audience began to move up the aisles to stretch its legs and discuss
the piece during the intermission. There was a general babble of conversati=
on.
Here, a composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show was
explaining to another composer who had not got an interpolated number in the
show the exact source from which a third composer who had got an interpolat=
ed
number in the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated. The=
re,
two musical comedy artistes who were temporarily resting were agreeing that=
the
prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary as it was to their life-long
policy to knock anybody, they must say that she was beginning to show the
passage of the years a trifle and ought to be warned by some friend that her
career as an ingenue was a thing of the past. Dramatic critics, slinking in
twos and threes into dark corners, were telling each other that "The R=
ose
of America" was just another of those things but it had apparently got
over. The general public was of the opinion that it was a knock-out.
"Otie
darling," said Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, leaning her ample shoulder on
Uncle Chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking across him to young Mr
Pilkington, "I do congratulate you, dear. It's perfectly delightful! I
don't know when I have enjoyed a musical piece so much. Don't you think it's
perfectly darling, Major Selby?"
"Capital!&qu=
ot;
agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored as near extinction as
makes no matter. "Congratulate you, my boy!"
"You clever,
clever thing!" said Mrs Peagrim, skittishly striking her nephew on the
knee with her fan. "I'm proud to be your aunt! Aren't you proud to know
him, Mr Rooke?"
The fourth occupa=
nt
of the box awoke with a start from the species of stupor into which he had =
been
plunged by the spectacle of the McWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had
been other dark moments in Freddie's life. Once, back in London, Parker had
sent him out into the heart of the West End without his spats and he had not
discovered their absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On another oc=
casion,
having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, he had discovered t=
oo
late that the latter was an ex-public-school champion. He had felt gloomy w=
hen
he had learned of the breaking-off of the engagement between Jill Mariner a=
nd
Derek Underhill, and sad when it had been brought to his notice that London=
was
giving Derek the cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career
had he experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him that even=
ing
while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder the part that should
have been his. And the audience, confound them, had roared with laughter at
every damn silly thing the fellow had said!
"Eh?" he
replied. "Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!"
"We're all p=
roud
of you, Otie darling," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "The piece is a
wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it. And just think, Major
Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear boy out of putting it on! I
thought it was so rash to risk his money in a theatrical venture. But
then," said Mrs Peagrim in extenuation, "I had only seen the piece
when it was done at my house at Newport, and of course it really was rather
dreadful nonsense then! I might have known that you would change it a great
deal before you put it on in New York. As I always say, plays are not writt=
en,
they are rewritten! Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, O=
tie!
I wouldn't know it was the same play!"
She slapped him
smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of the gashes she was inflicting. =
Poor
Mr Pilkington was suffering twin torments, the torture of remorse and the
agonized jealousy of the unsuccessful artist. It would have been bad enough=
to
have to sit and watch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-sti=
ck
comedy which Wally Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire: bu=
t,
had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself with the sordid
reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going to make a lot of money=
out
of it. Now, even this material balm was denied him. He had sold out, and he=
was
feeling like the man who parts for a song with shares in an apparently gold=
less
gold mine, only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has been=
located.
Into each life some rain must fall. Quite a shower was falling now into you=
ng
Mr. Pilkington's.
"Of
course," went on Mrs Peagrim, "when the play was done at my house=
, it
was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! The cast tonight is
perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is the most killing creature!
Don't you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?"
We may say what we
will against the upper strata of Society, but it cannot be denied that bree=
ding
tells. Only by falling back for support on the traditions of his class and =
the
solid support of a gentle upbringing was the Last of the Rookes able to cru=
sh
down the words that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politel=
y conventional
agreement. If Mr Pilkington was feeling like a too impulsive seller of
gold-mines, Freddie's emotions were akin to those of the Spartan boy with t=
he
fox under his vest. Nothing but Winchester and Magdalen could have produced=
the
smile which, though twisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto=
his
face and off again at his hostess' question.
"Oh, rather!
Priceless!"
"Wasn't that
part an Englishman before?" asked Mrs Peagrim. "I thought so. Wel=
l,
it was a stroke of genius changing it. This Scotchman is too funny for word=
s.
And such an artist!"
Freddie rose shak=
ily.
One can stand just so much.
"Think,"=
; he
mumbled, "I'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette."
He groped his way=
to
the door.
"I'll come w=
ith
you, Freddie my boy," said Uncle Chris, who felt an imperative need of
five minutes' respite from Mrs Peagrim. "Let's get out into the air fo=
r a
moment. Uncommonly warm it is here."
Freddie assented.=
Air
was what he felt he wanted most.
Left alone in the=
box
with her nephew, Mrs Peagrim continued for some moments in the same vein,
innocently twisting the knife in the open wound. It struck her from time to
time that darling Otie was perhaps a shade unresponsive, but she put this d=
own
to the nervous strain inseparable from a first night of a young author's fi=
rst
play.
"Why," =
she
concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands of dollars out of th=
is
piece. I am sure it is going to be another 'Merry Widow.'"
"You can't t=
ell
from a first night audience," said Mr Pilkington sombrely, giving out a
piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up at rehearsals.
"Oh, but you
can. It's so easy to distinguish polite applause from the real thing. No do=
ubt
many of the people down here have friends in the company or other reasons f=
or
seeming to enjoy the play, but look how the circle and the gallery were
enjoying it! You can't tell me that that was not genuine. They love it. How
hard," she proceeded commiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor
boy, during the tour on the road to improve the piece so much! I never like=
d to
say so before, but even you must agree with me now that that original versi=
on
of yours, which was done down at Newport, was the most terrible nonsense! A=
nd
how hard the company must have worked, too! Otie," cried Mrs Peagrim,
aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea, "I will tell you what you mu=
st
really do. You must give a supper and dance to the whole company on the sta=
ge
tomorrow night after the performance."
"What!"
cried Otis Pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by this appalling
suggestion. Was he, the man who, after planking down thirty-two thousand ei=
ght
hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents for "props" and
"frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltry ten
thousand, to be still further victimized?
"They do des=
erve
it, don't they, after working so hard?"
"It's
impossible," said Otis Pilkington vehemently. "Out of the questio=
n."
"But, Otie
darling, I was talking to Mr Mason, when he came down to Newport to see the
piece last summer, and he told me that the management nearly always gives a
supper to the company, especially if they have had a lot of extra rehearsin=
g to
do."
"Well, let G=
oble
give them a supper if he wants to."
"But you know
that Mr Goble, though he has his name on the programme as the manager, has
really nothing to do with it. You own the piece, don't you?"
For a moment Mr
Pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, but refrained. He knew his Aunt O=
live
too well. If she found out that he had parted at a heavy loss with this
valuable property, her whole attitude towards him would change,--or, rather=
, it
would revert to her normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe
nurse to a weak-minded child. Even in his agony there had been a certain fa=
int consolation,
due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in the voice with which she had
addressed him since the fall of the curtain. He shrank from forfeiting this
respect, unentitled though he was to it.
"Yes," =
he
said in his precise voice. "That, of course, is so."
"Well,
then!" said Mrs Peagrim.
"But it seem=
s so
unnecessary! And think what it would cost."
This was a false
step. Some of the reverence left Mrs Peagrim's voice, and she spoke a little
coldly. A gay and gallant spender herself, she had often had occasion to re=
buke
a tendency to over-parsimony in her nephew.
"We must not=
be
mean, Otie!" she said.
Mr Pilkington kee=
nly
resented her choice of pronouns. "We" indeed! Who was going to fo=
ot
the bill? Both of them, hand in hand, or he alone, the chump, the boob, the
easy mark who got this sort of thing wished on him!
"I don't thi=
nk
it would be possible to get the stage for a supper-party," he pleaded,
shifting his ground. "Goble wouldn't give it to us."
"As if Mr Go=
ble
would refuse you anything after you have written a wonderful success for his
theatre! And isn't he getting his share of the profits? Directly after the
performance, you must go round and ask him. Of course he will be delighted =
to
give you the stage. I will be hostess," said Mrs. Peagrim radiantly.
"And now, let me see, whom shall we invite?"
Mr Pilkington sta=
red
gloomily at the floor, too bowed down now by his weight of cares to resent =
the
"we," which had plainly come to stay. He was trying to estimate t=
he
size of the gash which this preposterous entertainment would cleave in the
Pilkington bank-roll. He doubted if it was possible to go through with it u=
nder
five hundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, Mrs Peagrim took
the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get into four figure=
s.
"Major Selby=
, of
course," said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooing note in her voice. L=
ong
since had that polished man of affairs made a deep impression upon her.
"Of course Major Selby, for one. And Mr Rooke. Then there are one or t=
wo
of my friends who would be hurt if they were left out. How about Mr Mason?
Isn't he a friend of yours?"
Mr Pilkington sno=
rted.
He had endured much and was prepared to endure more, but he drew the line at
squandering his money on the man who had sneaked up behind his brain-child =
with
a hatchet and chopped its precious person into little bits.
"He is not a
friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and I do not wish him to be
invited!"
Having attained h=
er
main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yield minor points.
"Very well, =
if
you do not like him," she said. "But I thought he was quite an
intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him to Newport last
summer."
"Much,"
said Mr Pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer."
"Oh, very
well," said Mrs Peagrim again. "Then we will not include Mr Mason.
Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop right round and find Mr
Goble and tell him what you want."
2.
It is not only
twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other. Between Otis Pilking=
ton
and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet, at the moment when Otis set o=
ut
to find Mr Goble, the thing which Mr Goble desired most in the world was an
interview with Otis. Since the end of the first act, the manager had been i=
n a
state of mental upheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble=
was
in the position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mine and
now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feeling the truth of
the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are
these--"It might have been." The electric success of "The Ro=
se
of America" had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as he did, that he m=
ight
have bought Otis Pilkington's share dirt cheap at almost any point of the
preliminary tour, he was having a bad half hour with himself. The only ray =
in
the darkness which brooded on his indomitable soul was the thought that it
might still be possible, by getting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices
appeared and shaking his head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes
which young authors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night receptio=
n and
impressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive your expert =
who
has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioning gloomily that he=
had
heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show to beat the band . . . by doing
all these things, it might still be possible to depress Mr Pilkington's you=
ng
enthusiasm and induce him to sell his share at a sacrifice price to a
great-hearted friend who didn't think the thing would run a week but was
willing to buy as a sporting speculation, because he thought Mr Pilkington a
good kid and after all these shows that flop in New York sometimes have a
chance on the road.
Such were the
meditations of Mr Goble, and, on the final fall of the curtain amid
unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, he had despatched
messengers in all directions with instructions to find Mr Pilkington and
conduct him to the presence. Meanwhile, he waited impatiently on the empty
stage.
The sudden advent=
of
Wally Mason, who appeared at this moment, upset Mr Goble terribly. Wally wa=
s a
factor in the situation which he had not considered. An infernal, tactless
fellow, always trying to make mischief and upset honest merchants, Wally, if
present at the interview with Otis Pilkington, would probably try to act in=
restraint
of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about the prospects of the
piece. Not for the first time, Mr Goble wished Wally a sudden stroke of
apoplexy.
"Went well,
eh?" said Wally amiably. He did not like Mr Goble, but on the first ni=
ght
of a successful piece personal antipathies may be sunk. Such was his
effervescent good-humor at the moment that he was prepared to treat Mr Gobl=
e as
a man and a brother.
"H'm!"
replied Mr Goble doubtfully, paving the way.
"What are you
h'ming about?" demanded Wally, astonished. "The thing's a riot.&q=
uot;
"You never
know," responded Mr Goble in the minor key.
"Well!"
Wally stared. "I don't know what more you want. The audience sat up on=
its
hind legs and squealed, didn't they?"
"I've an
idea," said Mr Goble, raising his voice as the long form of Mr Pilking=
ton
crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics will roast it. If you
ask me," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort of show the criti=
cs
will pan the life out of. I've been fifteen years in the . . ."
"Critics!&qu=
ot; cried
Wally. "Well, I've just been talking to Alexander of the Times, and he
said it was the best musical piece he had ever seen and that all the other =
men
he had talked to thought the same."
Mr Goble turned a
distorted face to Mr Pilkington. He wished that Wally would go. But Wally, =
he
reflected bitterly, was one of those men who never go. He faced Mr Pilkingt=
on
and did the best he could.
"Of course i=
t's
got a chance," he said gloomily. "Any show has got a chance! But I
don't know . . . I don't know . . ."
Mr Pilkington was=
not
interested in the future prospects of "The Rose of America." He h=
ad a
favor to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have it refused if possible, and get
away. It occurred to him that, by substituting for the asking of a favor a
peremptory demand, he might save himself a thousand dollars.
"I want the
stage after the performance tomorrow night, for a supper to the company,&qu=
ot;
he said brusquely.
He was shocked to
find Mr Goble immediately complaisant.
"Why,
sure," said Mr Goble readily. "Go as far as you like!" He to=
ok Mr
Pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voice to a
confidential undertone. "And now, listen," he said, "I've so=
mething
I want to talk to you about. Between you and I and the lamp-post, I don't t=
hink
this show will last a month in New York. It don't add up right! There's
something all wrong about it."
Mr Pilkington
assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "I quite agree with
you! If you had kept it the way it was originally . . ."
"Too late for
that!" sighed Mr Goble, realizing that his star was in the ascendant. =
He
had forgotten for the moment that Mr Pilkington was an author. "We must
make the best of a bad job! Now, you're a good kid and I wouldn't like you =
to
go around town saying that I had let you in. It isn't business, maybe, but,
just because I don't want you to have any kick coming, I'm ready to buy your
share of the thing and call it a deal. After all, it may get money on the r=
oad.
It ain't likely, but there's a chance, and I'm willing to take it. Well, li=
sten,
I'm probably robbing myself, but I'll give you fifteen thousand, if you wan=
t to
sell."
A hated voice spo=
ke
at his elbow.
"I'll make y=
ou a
better offer than that," said Wally. "Give me your share of the s=
how
for three dollars in cash and I'll throw in a pair of sock-suspenders and an
Ingersoll. Is it a go?"
Mr Goble regarded=
him
balefully.
"Who told yo=
u to
butt in?" he enquired sourly.
"Conscience!=
"
replied Wally. "Old Henry W. Conscience! I refuse to stand by and see =
the
slaughter of the innocents. Why don't you wait till he's dead before you sk=
in
him!" He turned to Mr Pilkington. "Don't you be a fool!" he =
said
earnestly. "Can't you see the thing is the biggest hit in years? Do you
think Jesse James here would be offering you a cent for your share if he di=
dn't
know there was a fortune in it? Do you imagine . . . ?"
"It is
immaterial to me," interrupted Otis Pilkington loftily, "what Mr
Goble offers. I have already sold my interest!"
"What!"
cried Mr Goble.
"When?"
cried Wally.
"I sold it h=
alf
way through the road-tour," said Mr Pilkington, "to a lawyer, act=
ing
on behalf of a client whose name I did not learn."
In the silence wh=
ich
followed this revelation, another voice spoke.
"I should li=
ke
to speak to you for a moment, Mr Goble, if I may." It was Jill, who had
joined the group unperceived.
Mr Goble glowered=
at
Jill, who met his gaze composedly.
"I'm busy!&q=
uot;
snapped Mr Goble. "See me tomorrow!"
"I would pre=
fer
to see you now."
"You would
prefer!" Mr Goble waved his hands despairingly, as if calling on heave=
n to
witness the persecution of a good man.
Jill exhibited a
piece of paper stamped with the letter-heading of the management.
"It's about
this," she said. "I found it in the box as I was going out."=
"What's
that?"
"It seems to=
be
a fortnight's notice."
"And that,&q=
uot;
said Mr Goble, "is what it is!"
Wally uttered an
exclamation.
"Do you mean=
to
say . . . ?"
"Yes, I
do!" said the manager, turning on him. He felt that he had out-maneuvr=
ed
Wally. "I agreed to let her open in New York, and she's done it, hasn't
she? Now she can get out. I don't want her. I wouldn't have her if you paid=
me.
She's a nuisance in the company, always making trouble, and she can go.&quo=
t;
"But I would
prefer not to go," said Jill.
"You would p=
refer!"
The phrase infuriated Mr Goble. "And what has what you would prefer go=
t to
do with it?"
"Well, you
see," said Jill, "I forgot to tell you before, but I own the
piece!"
3.
Mr Goble's jaw fe=
ll.
He had been waving his hands in another spacious gesture, and he remained
frozen with out-stretched arms, like a semaphore. This evening had been a
series of shocks for him, but this was the worst shock of all.
"You--what!&=
quot;
he stammered.
"I own the
piece," repeated Jill. "Surely that gives me authority to say wha=
t I
want done and what I don't want done."
There was a silen=
ce.
Mr Goble, who was having difficulty with his vocal chords, swallowed once or
twice. Wally and Mr Pilkington stared dumbly. At the back of the stage, a
belated scene-shifter, homeward bound, was whistling as much as he could
remember of the refrain of a popular song.
"What do you
mean you own the piece?" Mr Goble at length gurgled.
"I bought
it."
"You bought
it!"
"I bought Mr
Pilkington's share through a lawyer for ten thousand dollars."
"Ten thousand
dollars! Where did you get ten thousand dollars?" Light broke upon Mr
Goble. The thing became clear to him. "Damn it!" he cried. "I
might have known you had some man behind you! You'd never have been so darn=
ed
fresh if you hadn't had some John in the background, paying the bills! Well=
, of
all the . . ."
He broke off
abruptly, not because he had said all that he wished to say, for he had only
touched the fringe of his subject, but because at this point Wally's elbow
smote him in the parts about the third button of his waistcoat and jarred a=
ll
the breath out of him.
"Be quiet!&q=
uot;
said Wally dangerously. He turned to Jill. "Jill, you don't mind telli=
ng
me how you got ten thousand dollars, do you?"
"Of course n=
ot,
Wally. Uncle Chris sent it to me. Do you remember giving me a letter from h=
im
at Rochester? The check was in that."
Wally stared.
"Your uncle!=
But
he hasn't any money!"
"He must have
made it somehow."
"But he
couldn't! How could he?"
Otis Pilkington
suddenly gave tongue. He broke in on them with a loud noise that was half a
snort and half a yell. Stunned by the information that it was Jill who had
bought his share in the piece, Mr Pilkington's mind had recovered slowly and
then had begun to work with a quite unusual rapidity. During the preceding
conversation he had been doing some tense thinking, and now he saw all.
"It's a swin=
dle!
It's a deliberate swindle!" shrilled Mr Pilkington. The
tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles flashed sparks. "I've been made a fool=
of!
I've been swindled! I've been robbed!"
Jill regarded him
with wide eyes.
"What do you
mean?"
"You know wh=
at I
mean!"
"I certainly=
do
not! You were perfectly willing to sell the piece."
"I'm not tal=
king
about that! You know what I mean! I've been robbed!"
Wally snatched at=
his
arm as it gyrated past him in a gesture of anguish which rivalled the late
efforts in that direction of Mr Goble, who was now leaning against the
safety-curtain trying to get his breath back.
"Don't be a
fool," said Wally curtly. "Talk sense! You know perfectly well th=
at
Miss Mariner wouldn't swindle you."
"She may not
have been in it," conceded Mr Pilkington. "I don't know whether s=
he
was or not. But that uncle of her swindled me out of ten thousand dollars! =
The
smooth old crook!"
"Don't talk =
like
that about Uncle Chris!" said Jill, her eyes flashing. "Tell me w=
hat
you mean."
"Yes, come o=
n,
Pilkington," said Wally grimly. "You've been scattering some pret=
ty
serious charges about. Let's hear what you base them on. Be coherent for a
couple of seconds."
Mr Goble filled h=
is
depleted lungs.
"If you ask =
me .
. ." he began.
"We don't,&q=
uot;
said Wally curtly. "This has nothing to do with you. Well," he we=
nt
on, "we're waiting to hear what this is all about."
Mr Pilkington gul=
ped.
Like most men of weak intellect who are preyed on by the wolves of the worl=
d,
he had ever a strong distaste for admitting that he had been deceived. He l=
iked
to regard himself as a shrewd young man who knew his way about and could ta=
ke
care of himself.
"Major
Selby," he said, adjusting his spectacles, which emotion had caused to
slip down his nose, "came to me a few weeks ago with a proposition. He
suggested the formation of a company to start Miss Mariner in the
motion-pictures."
"What!"
cried Jill.
"In the
motion-pictures," repeated Mr Pilkington. "He wished to know if I
cared to advance any capital towards the venture. I thought it over careful=
ly
and decided that I was favorably disposed towards the scheme. I . . ."=
Mr
Pilkington gulped again. "I gave him a check for ten thousand
dollars!"
"Of all the
fools!" said Mr Goble with a sharp laugh. He caught Wally's eye and
subsided once more.
Mr Pilkington's
fingers strayed agitatedly to his spectacles.
"I may have =
been
a fool," he cried shrilly, "though I was perfectly willing to risk
the money, had it been applied to the object for which I gave it. But when =
it
comes to giving ten thousand dollars just to have it paid back to me in
exchange for a very valuable piece, of theatrical property . . . my own mon=
ey .
. . handed back to me . . . !"
Words failed Mr
Pilkington.
"I've been
deliberately swindled!" he added after a moment, harking back to the m=
ain
motive.
Jill's heart was =
like
lead. She could not doubt for an instant the truth of what the victim had s=
aid.
Woven into every inch of the fabric, plainly hall-marked on its surface, she
could perceive the signature of Uncle Chris. If he had come and confessed to
her himself, she could not have been more certain that he had acted precise=
ly
as Mr Pilkington had charged. There was that same impishness, that same bla=
nd
unscrupulousness, that same pathetic desire to do her a good turn however it
might affect anybody else which, if she might compare the two things, had
caused him to pass her off on unfortunate Mr Mariner of Brookport as a girl=
of
wealth with tastes in the direction of real estate.
Wally was not so
easily satisfied.
"You've no p=
roof
whatever . . ."
Jill shook her he=
ad.
"It's true,
Wally. I know Uncle Chris. It must be true."
"But, Jill .=
. .
!"
"It must be.=
How
else could Uncle Chris have got the money?"
Mr Pilkington, mu=
ch
encouraged by this ready acquiescence in his theories, got under way once m=
ore.
"The man's a
swindler! A swindler! He's robbed me! I have been robbed! He never had any
intention of starting a motion-picture company. He planned it all out . . .
!"
Jill cut into the
babble of his denunciations. She was sick at heart, and she spoke almost
listlessly.
"Mr
Pilkington!" The victim stopped. "Mr Pilkington, if what you say =
is
true, and I'm afraid there is no doubt that it is, the only thing I can do =
is
to give you back your property. So will you please try to understand that
everything is just as it was before you gave my uncle the money. You've got
back your ten thousand dollars and you've got back your piece, so there's
nothing more to talk about."
Mr Pilkington, di=
mly
realizing that the financial aspect of the affair had been more or less
satisfactorily adjusted was nevertheless conscious of a feeling that he was
being thwarted. He had much more to say about Uncle Chris and his methods of
doing business, and it irked him to be cut short like this.
"Yes, but I =
do
think. . . . That's all very well, but I have by no means finished . . .&qu=
ot;
"Yes, you
have," said Wally.
"There's not=
hing
more to talk about," repeated Jill. "I'm sorry this should have
happened, but you've nothing to complain about now, have you? Good night.&q=
uot;
And she turned
quickly away, and walked towards the door.
"But I hadn't
finished!" wailed Mr Pilkington, clutching at Wally. He was feeling
profoundly aggrieved. If it is bad to be all dressed up and no place to go,=
it
is almost worse to be full of talk and to have no one to talk it to. Otis
Pilkington had at least another twenty minutes of speech inside him on the
topic of Uncle Chris, and Wally was the nearest human being with a pair of
ears.
Wally was in no m=
ood
to play the part of confidant. He pushed Mr Pilkington earnestly in the che=
st
and raced after Jill. Mr Pilkington, with the feeling that the world was
against him, tottered back into the arms of Mr Goble, who had now recovered=
his
breath and was ready to talk business.
"Have a good
cigar," said Mr Goble, producing one. "Now, see here, let's get r=
ight
down to it. If you'd care to sell out for twenty thousand . . ."
"I would not
care to sell out for twenty thousand!" yelled the overwrought Mr
Pilkington. "I wouldn't sell out for a million! You're a swindler! You
want to rob me! You're a crook!"
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
assented Mr Goble gently. "But, all joking aside, suppose I was to go =
up
to twenty-five thousand . . . ?" He twined his fingers lovingly in the
slack of Mr Pilkington's coat. "Come now! You're a good kid! Shall we =
say
twenty-five thousand?"
"We will not=
say
twenty-five thousand! Let me go!"
"Now, now,
now!" pleaded Mr Goble. "Be sensible! don't get all worked up! Sa=
y,
do have a good cigar!"
"I won't hav=
e a
good cigar!" shouted Mr Pilkington.
He detached himse=
lf
with a jerk, and stalked with long strides up the stage. Mr Goble watched h=
im
go with a lowering gaze. A heavy sense of the unkindness of fate was oppres=
sing
Mr Goble. If you couldn't gyp a bone-headed amateur out of a piece of prope=
rty,
whom could you gyp? Mr Goble sighed. It hardly seemed to him worth while go=
ing
on.
4.
Out in the street
Wally had overtaken Jill, and they faced one another in the light of a stre=
et
lamp. Forty-first Street at midnight is a quiet oasis. They had it to
themselves.
Jill was pale, and
she was breathing quickly, but she forced a smile.
"Well,
Wally," she said. "My career as a manager didn't last long, did
it?"
"What are you
going to do?"
Jill looked down =
the
street.
"I don't
know," she said. "I suppose I shall have to start trying to find
something."
"But . . .&q=
uot;
Jill drew him
suddenly into the dark alley-way leading to the stage-door of the Gotham
Theatre's nearest neighbor: and, as she did so, a long, thin form, swathed =
in
an overcoat and surmounted by an opera-hat, flashed past.
"I don't thi=
nk I
could have gone through another meeting with Mr Pilkington," said Jill.
"It wasn't his fault, and he was quite justified, but what he said abo=
ut
Uncle Chris rather hurt."
Wally, who had id=
eas
of his own similar to those of Mr Pilkington on the subject of Uncle Chris =
and
had intended to express them, prudently kept them unspoken.
"I suppose,&=
quot;
he said, "there is no doubt . . . ?"
"There can't=
be.
Poor Uncle Chris! He is like Freddie. He means well!"
There was a pause.
They left the alley and walked down the street.
"Where are y=
ou
going now?" asked Wally.
"I'm going
home."
"Where's hom=
e?"
"Forty-ninth
Street. I live in a boarding-house there." A sudden recollection of the
boarding-house at which she had lived in Atlantic City smote Wally, and it
turned the scale. He had not intended to speak, but he could not help himse=
lf.
"Jill!"=
he
cried. "It's no good. I must say it! I want to get you out of all this=
. I
want to take care of you. Why should you go on living this sort of life, wh=
en.
. . . Why won't you let me . . . ?"
He stopped. Even =
as
he spoke, he realized the futility of what he was saying. Jill was not a gi=
rl
to be won with words.
They walked on in
silence for a moment. They crossed Broadway, noisy with night traffic, and
passed into the stillness on the other side.
"Wally,"
said Jill at last.
She was looking
straight in front of her. Her voice was troubled.
"Yes?"<= o:p>
Jill hesitated.
"Wally, you
wouldn't want me to marry you if you knew you weren't the only man in the w=
orld
that mattered to me, would you?"
They had reached
Sixth Avenue before Wally replied.
"No!" he
said.
For an instant, J=
ill
could not have said whether the feeling that shot through her like the abru=
pt
touching of a nerve was relief or disappointment. Then suddenly she realized
that it was disappointment. It was absurd to her to feel disappointed, but =
at that
moment she would have welcomed a different attitude in him. If only this
problem of hers could be taken forcefully out of her hands, what a relief i=
t would
be. If only Wally, masterfully insistent, would batter down her hesitations=
and
grab her, knock her on the head and carry her off like a caveman, care less
about her happiness and concentrate on his own, what a solution it would be=
. .
. . But then he wouldn't be Wally. . . . Nevertheless, Jill gave a little s=
igh.
Her new life had changed her already. It had blunted the sharp edge of her
independence. Tonight she was feeling the need of some one to lean on--some=
one
strong and cosy and sympathetic who would treat her like a little girl and
shield her from all the roughness of life. The fighting spirit had gone out=
of
her, and she was no longer the little warrior facing the world with a brave=
eye
and a tilted chin. She wanted to cry and be petted.
"No!" s=
aid
Wally again. There had been the faintest suggestion of a doubt when he had
spoken the word before, but now it shot out like a bullet. "And I'll t=
ell
you why. I want you--and, if you married me feeling like that, it wouldn't =
be
you. I want Jill, the whole Jill, and nothing but Jill, and, if I can't have
that, I'd rather not have anything. Marriage isn't a motion-picture close-up
with slow fade-out on the embrace. It's a partnership, and what's the good =
of a
partnership if your heart's not in it? It's like collaborating with a man y=
ou
dislike. . . . I believe you wish sometimes--not often, perhaps, but when
you're feeling lonely and miserable--that I would pester and bludgeon you i=
nto
marrying me. . . . What's the matter?"
Jill had started.=
It
was disquieting to have her thoughts read with such accuracy.
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
she said.
"It wouldn't=
be
any good," Wally went on "because it wouldn't be me. I couldn't k=
eep
that attitude up, and I know I should hate myself for ever having tried it.
There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do to help you, though I know it's =
no
use offering to do anything. You're a fighter, and you mean to fight your o=
wn
battle. It might happen that, if I kept after you and badgered you and nagg=
ed you,
one of these days, when you were feeling particularly all alone in the world
and tired of fighting for yourself, you might consent to marry me. But it
wouldn't do. Even if you reconciled yourself to it, it wouldn't do. I suppo=
se,
the cave-woman sometimes felt rather relieved when everything was settled f=
or
her with a club, but I'm sure the caveman must have had a hard time ridding
himself of the thought that he had behaved like a cad and taken a mean
advantage. I don't want to feel like that. I couldn't make you happy if I f=
elt like
that. Much better to have you go on regarding me as a friend . . . knowing
that, if ever your feelings do change, that I am right there, waiting."=
;
"But by that
time your feelings will have changed."
Wally laughed.
"Never!"=
;
"You'll meet
some other girl . . ."
"I've met ev= ery girl in the world! None of them will do!" The lightness came back into Wally's voice. "I'm sorry for the poor things, but they won't do! Take= 'em away! There's only one girl in the world for me--oh, confound it! why is it that one always thinks in song-titles! Well, there it is. I'm not going to bother you. We're pals. And, as a pal, may I offer you my bank-roll?"<= o:p>
"No!" s=
aid
Jill. She smiled up at him. "I believe you would give me your coat if I
asked you for it!"
Wally stopped.
"Do you want=
it?
Here you are!"
"Wally, beha=
ve!
There's a policeman looking at you!"
"Oh, well, if
you won't! It's a good coat, all the same."
They turned the
corner, and stopped before a brown-stone house, with a long ladder of untidy
steps running up to the front door.
"Is this whe=
re
you live?" Wally asked. He looked at the gloomy place disapprovingly.
"You do choose the most awful places!"
"I don't cho=
ose
them. They're thrust on me. Yes, this is where I live. If you want to know =
the
exact room, it's the third window up there over the front door. Well, good
night."
"Good
night," said Wally. He paused. "Jill."
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"I know it's=
not
worth mentioning, and it's breaking our agreement to mention it, but you do
understand, don't you?"
"Yes, Wally
dear, I understand."
"I'm round t=
he
corner, you know, waiting! And, if you ever do change, all you've got to do=
is just
to come to me and say 'It's all right!' . . ."
Jill laughed a li=
ttle
shakily.
"That doesn't
sound very romantic!"
"Not sound
romantic! If you can think of any three words in the language that sound mo=
re
romantic, let me have them! Well, never mind how they sound, just say them,=
and
watch the result! But you must get to bed. Good night."
"Good night,
Wally."
She passed in thr=
ough
the dingy door. It closed behind her, and Wally stood for some moments star=
ing
at it with a gloomy repulsion. He thought he had never seen a dingier door.=
Then he started to
walk back to his apartment. He walked very quickly, with clenched hands. He=
was
wondering if after all there was not something to be said for the methods of
the caveman when he went a-wooing. Twinges of conscience the caveman may ha=
ve
had when all was over, but at least he had established his right to look af=
ter
the woman he loved.
1.
"They tell m= e . . . I am told . . . I am informed . . . No, one moment, Miss Frisby."<= o:p>
Mrs Peagrim wrink=
led
her fair forehead. It has been truly said that there is no agony like the a=
gony
of literary composition, and Mrs. Peagrim was having rather a bad time gett=
ing
the requisite snap and ginger into her latest communication to the press. S=
he
bit her lip, and would have passed her twitching fingers restlessly through=
her
hair but for the thought of the damage which such an action must do to her
coiffure. Miss Frisby, her secretary, an anaemic and negative young woman,
waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth with her pencil.
"Please do n=
ot
make that tapping noise, Miss Frisby," said the sufferer querulously.
"I cannot think. Otie, dear, can't you suggest a good phrase? You ough=
t to
be able to, being an author."
Mr Pilkington, who
was strewn over an arm-chair by the window, awoke from his meditations, whi=
ch,
to judge from the furrow just above the bridge of his tortoiseshell spectac=
les
and the droop of his weak chin, were not pleasant. It was the morning after=
the
production of "The Rose of America," and he had passed a sleepless
night, thinking of the harsh words he had said to Jill. Could she ever forg=
ive
him? Would she have the generosity to realize that a man ought not to be he=
ld
accountable for what he says in the moment when he discovers that he has be=
en
cheated, deceived, robbed,--in a word, hornswoggled? He had been brooding on
this all night, and he wanted to go on brooding now. His aunt's question
interrupted his train of thought.
"Eh?" he
said vaguely, gaping.
"Oh, don't b=
e so
absent-minded!" snapped Mrs Peagrim, not unjustifiably annoyed. "=
I am
trying to compose a paragraph for the papers about our party tonight, and I
can't get the right phrase . . . Read what you've written, Miss Frisby.&quo=
t;
Miss Frisby, havi=
ng
turned a pale eye on the pothooks and twiddleys in her note-book, translated
them in a pale voice.
"'Surely of =
all
the leading hostesses in New York Society there can be few more versatile t=
han
Mrs Waddlesleigh Peagrim. I am amazed every time I go to her delightful hom=
e on
West End Avenue to see the scope and variety of her circle of intimates. He=
re
you will see an ambassador with a fever . . .'"
"With a
what?" demanded Mrs Peagrim sharply.
"'Fever,' I
thought you said," replied Miss Frisby stolidly. "I wrote 'fever'=
."
"'Diva.' Do =
use
your intelligence, my good girl. Go on."
"'Here you w=
ill
see an ambassador with a diva from the opera, exchanging the latest gossip =
from
the chancelleries for intimate news of the world behind the scenes. There, =
the
author of the latest novel talking literature to the newest debutante. Truly
one may say that Mrs Peagrim has revived the saloon.'"
Mrs Peagrim bit h=
er
lip.
"'Salon'.&qu=
ot;
"'Salon',&qu=
ot;
said Miss Frisby unemotionally. "'They tell me, I am told, I am inform=
ed .
. .'" She paused. "That's all I have."
"Scratch out those last words," said Mrs Peagrim irritably. "You really are hopeless, Miss Frisby! Couldn't you see that I had stopped dictating and was searching for a phrase? Otie, what is a good phrase for 'I am told'?"<= o:p>
Mr Pilkington for=
ced
his wandering attention to grapple with the problem.
"'I hear',&q=
uot;
he suggested at length.
"Tchah!"
ejaculated his aunt. Then her face brightened. "I have it. Take dictat=
ion,
please, Miss Frisby. 'A little bird whispers to me that there were great do=
ings
last night on the stage of the Gotham Theatre after the curtain had fallen =
on
"The Rose of America" which, as everybody knows, is the work of M=
rs
Peagrim's clever young nephew, Otis Pilkington.'" Mrs Peagrim shot a
glance at her clever young nephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but
Otis' thoughts were far away once more. He was lying on his spine, brooding,
brooding. Mrs Peagrim resumed her dictation. "'In honor of the
extraordinary success of the piece, Mrs Peagrim, who certainly does nothing=
by halves,
entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after the performance. A
number of prominent people were among the guests, and Mrs Peagrim was a rad=
iant
and vivacious hostess. She has never looked more charming. The high jinks w=
ere
kept up to an advanced hour, and every one agreed that they had never spent=
a
more delightful evening.' There! Type as many copies as are necessary, Miss
Frisby, and send them out this afternoon with photographs."
Miss Frisby having
vanished in her pallid way, the radiant and vivacious hostess turned on her
nephew again.
"I must say,
Otie," she began complainingly, "that, for a man who has had a
success like yours, you are not very cheerful. I should have thought the
notices of the piece would have made you the happiest man in New York."=
;
There was once a
melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroine used to dissolve the
gallery in tears by saying "Happiness? What is happiness, moth-aw?&quo=
t;
Mr Pilkington did not use these actual words, but he reproduced the stricke=
n infant's
tone with great fidelity.
"Notices! Wh=
at
are notices to me?"
"Oh, don't b=
e so
affected!" cried Mrs Peagrim. "Don't pretend that you don't know
every word of them by heart!"
"I have not =
seen
the notices, Aunt Olive," said Mr Pilkington dully.
Mrs Peagrim looke=
d at
him with positive alarm. She had never been overwhelmingly attached to her =
long
nephew, but since his rise to fame something resembling affection had sprun=
g up
in her, and his attitude now disturbed her.
"You can't be
well, Otie!" she said solicitously. "Are you ill?"
"I have a se=
vere
headache," replied the martyr. "I passed a wakeful night."
"Let me go a=
nd
mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," said Mrs. Peagrim
maternally. "Poor boy! I don't wonder, after all the nervousness and
excitement . . . You sit quite still and rest. I will be back in a
moment."
She bustled out of
the room, and Mr Pilkington sagged back into his chair. He had hardly got h=
is
meditations going once more, when the door opened and the maid announced
"Major Selby."
"Good
morning," said Uncle Chris breezily, sailing down the fairway with
outstretched hand. "How are--oh!"
He stopped abrupt=
ly,
perceiving that Mrs Peagrim was not present and--a more disturbing
discovery--that Otis Pilkington was. It would be exaggeration to say that U=
ncle
Chris was embarrassed. That master-mind was never actually embarrassed. But=
his
jauntiness certainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his mustache twice =
before
he could face the situation with his customary aplomb. He had not expected =
to
find Otis Pilkington here, and Otis was the last man he wished to meet. He =
had
just parted from Jill, who had been rather plain-spoken with regard to the
recent financial operations: and, though possessed only of a rudimentary
conscience, Uncle Chris was aware that his next interview with young Mr
Pilkington might have certain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would
have liked time to prepare a statement for the defence. However, here the m=
an
was, and the situation must be faced.
"Pilkington!=
"
he cried. "My dear fellow! Just the man I wanted to see! I'm afraid th=
ere
has been a little misunderstanding. Of course, it has all been cleared up n=
ow,
but still I must insist on making a personal explanation, really I must ins=
ist.
The whole matter was a most absurd misunderstanding. It was like this . .
."
Here Uncle Chris
paused in order to devote a couple of seconds to thought. He had said it was
"like this," and he gave his mustache another pull as though he w=
ere
trying to drag inspiration out of it. His blue eyes were as frank and hones=
t as
ever, and showed no trace of the perplexity in his mind, but he had to admi=
t to
himself that, if he managed to satisfy his hearer that all was for the best=
and
that he had acted uprightly and without blame, he would be doing well.
Fortunately, the
commercial side of Mr Pilkington was entirely dormant this morning. The mat=
ter
of the ten thousand dollars seemed trivial to him in comparison with the
weightier problems which occupied his mind.
"Have you se=
en
Miss Mariner?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes. I have
just parted from her. She was upset, poor girl, of course, exceedingly
upset."
Mr Pilkington moa=
ned
hollowly.
"Is she very
angry with me?"
For a moment the
utter inexplicability of the remark silenced Uncle Chris. Why Jill should be
angry with Mr Pilkington for being robbed of ten thousand dollars, he could=
not
understand, for Jill had told him nothing of the scene that had taken place=
on
the previous night. But evidently this point was to Mr Pilkington the nub of
the matter, and Uncle Chris, like the strategist he was, rearranged his for=
ces
to meet the new development.
"Angry?"=
; he
said slowly. "Well, of course . . ."
He did not know w=
hat
it was all about, but no doubt if he confined himself to broken sentences w=
hich
meant nothing light would shortly be vouchsafed to him.
"In the heat=
of
the moment," confessed Mr Pilkington, "I'm afraid I said things to
Miss Mariner which I now regret."
Uncle Chris began=
to
feel on solid ground again.
"Dear,
dear!" he murmured regretfully.
"I spoke
hastily."
"Always think
before you speak, my boy."
"I considered
that I had been cheated . . ."
"My dear
boy!" Uncle Chris' blue eyes opened wide. "Please! Haven't I said
that I could explain all that? It was a pure misunderstanding . . ."
"Oh, I don't
care about that part of it . . ."
"Quite
right," said Uncle Chris cordially. "Let bygones be bygones. Start
with a clean slate. You have your money back, and there's no need to say
another word about it. Let us forget it," he concluded generously.
"And, if I have any influence with Jill, you may count on me to use it=
to
dissipate any little unfortunate rift which may have occurred between
you."
"You think
there's a chance that she might overlook what I said?"
"As I say, I=
will
use any influence I may possess to heal the breach. I like you, my boy. And=
I
am sure that Jill likes you. She will make allowances for any ill-judged
remarks you may have uttered in a moment of heat."
Mr Pilkington
brightened, and Mrs Peagrim, returning with a medicine-glass, was pleased to
see him looking so much better.
"You are a
positive wizard, Major Selby," she said archly. "What have you be=
en
saying to the poor boy to cheer him up so? He has a bad headache this
morning."
"Headache?&q=
uot;
said Uncle Chris, starting like a war-horse that has heard the bugle. "=
;I
don't know if I have ever mentioned it, but I used to suffer from headaches=
at
one time. Extraordinarily severe headaches. I tried everything, until one d=
ay a
man I knew recommended a thing called--don't know if you have ever heard of=
it
. . ."
Mrs Peagrim, in h=
er
role of ministering angel, was engrossed with her errand of mercy. She was
holding the medicine-glass to Mr Pilkington's lips, and the seed fell on st=
ony
ground.
"Drink this,
dear," urged Mrs Peagrim.
"Nervino,&qu=
ot;
said Uncle Chris.
"There!"
said Mrs Peagrim. "That will make you feel much better. How well you
always look, Major Selby!"
"And yet at =
one
time," said Uncle Chris perseveringly, "I was a martyr . . ."=
;
"I can't
remember if I told you last night about the party. We are giving a little
supper-dance to the company of Otie's play after the performance this eveni=
ng.
Of course you will come?"
Uncle Chris
philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear of his audience. Oth=
er
opportunities would occur.
"Delighted,&=
quot;
he said. "Delighted."
"Quite a sim=
ple,
bohemian little affair," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "I thought it was
only right to give the poor things a little treat after they have all worke=
d so
hard."
"Certainly,
certainly. A capital idea."
"We shall be
quite a small party. If I once started asking anybody outside our real frie=
nds,
I should have to ask everybody."
The door opened.<= o:p>
"Mr Rooke,&q=
uot;
announced the maid.
Freddie, like Mr
Pilkington, was a prey to gloom this morning. He had read one or two of the
papers, and they had been disgustingly lavish in their praise of The McWhus=
tle
of McWhustle. It made Freddie despair of the New York press. In addition to
this, he had been woken up at seven o'clock, after going to sleep at three,=
by
the ringing of the telephone and the announcement that a gentleman wished to
see him: and he was weighed down with that heavy-eyed languor which comes to
those whose night's rest is broken.
"Why, how do=
you
do, Mr Rooke!" said Mrs Peagrim.
"How-de-do,&=
quot;
replied Freddie, blinking in the strong light from the window. "Hope I=
'm
not barging in and all that sort of thing? I came round about this party
tonight, you know."
"Oh, yes?&qu=
ot;
"Was
wondering," said Freddie, "if you would mind if I brought a frien=
d of
mine along? Popped in on me from England this morning. At seven o'clock,&qu=
ot;
said Freddie plaintively. "Ghastly hour, what! Didn't do a thing to the
good old beauty sleep! Well, what I mean to say is, I'd be awfully obliged =
if
you'd let me bring him along."
"Why, of
course," said Mrs Peagrim. "Any friend of yours, Mr Rooke . . .&q=
uot;
"Thanks awfu=
lly.
Special reason why I'd like him to come, and all that. He's a fellow named
Underhill. Sir Derek Underhill. Been a pal of mine for years and years.&quo=
t;
Uncle Chris start=
ed.
"Underhill! =
Is
Derek Underhill in America?"
"Landed this
morning. Routed me out of bed at seven o'clock."
"Oh, do you =
know
him, too, Major Selby?" said Mrs Peagrim. "Then I'm sure he must =
be
charming!"
"Charming,&q=
uot;
began Uncle Chris in measured tones, "is an adjective which I cannot .=
.
."
"Well, thanks
most awfully," interrupted Freddie. "It's fearfully good of you to
let me bring him along. I must be staggering off now. Lot of things to
do."
"Oh, must yo=
u go
already?"
"Absolutely =
must.
Lot of things to do."
Uncle Chris exten=
ded
a hand to his hostess.
"I think I w=
ill
be going along, too, Mrs Peagrim. I'll walk a few yards with you, Freddie my
boy. There are one or two things I would like to talk over. Till tonight, M=
rs
Peagrim."
"Till tonigh=
t,
Major Selby." She turned to Mr Pilkington as the door closed. "Wh=
at
charming manners Major Selby has, So polished. A sort of old-world courtesy=
. So
smooth!"
"Smooth,&quo=
t;
said Mr Pilkington dourly, "is right!"
2.
Uncle Chris
confronted Freddie sternly outside the front door.
"What does t=
his
mean? Good God, Freddie, have you no delicacy?"
"Eh?" s=
aid
Freddie blankly.
"Why are you
bringing Underhill to this party? Don't you realize that poor Jill will be
there? How do you suppose she will feel when she sees that blackguard again?
The cad who threw her over and nearly broke her heart!"
Freddie's jaw fel=
l.
He groped for his fallen eyeglass.
"Oh, my aunt=
! Do
you think she will be pipped?"
"A sensitive
girl like Jill!"
"But, listen.
Derek wants to marry her."
"What!"=
"Oh, absolut=
ely.
That's why he's come over."
Uncle Chris shook=
his
head.
"I don't
understand this. I saw the letter myself which he wrote to her, breaking off
the engagement."
"Yes, but he=
's
dashed sorry about all that now. Wishes he had never been such a mug, and a=
ll
that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, that's why I shot over here in the
first place. As an ambassador, don't you know. I told Jill all about it
directly I saw her, but she seemed inclined to give it a miss rather, so I
cabled old Derek to pop here in person. Seemed to me, don't you know, that =
Jill
might be more likely to make it up and all that if she saw old Derek."=
Uncle Chris nodde=
d,
his composure restored.
"Very true. =
Yes,
certainly, my boy, you acted most sensibly. Badly as Underhill behaved, she
undoubtedly loved him. It would be the best possible thing that could happe=
n if
they could be brought together. It is my dearest wish to see Jill comfortab=
ly
settled. I was half hoping that she might marry young Pilkington."
"Good God! T=
he
Pilker!"
"He is quite=
a
nice young fellow," argued Uncle Chris. "None too many brains,
perhaps, but Jill would supply that deficiency. Still, of course, Underhill
would be much better."
"She ought to
marry someone," said Freddie earnestly. "I mean, all rot a girl l=
ike
Jill having to knock about and rough it like this."
"You're
perfectly right."
"Of
course," said Freddie thoughtfully, "the catch in the whole dashed
business is that she's such a bally independent sort of girl. I mean to say,
it's quite possible she may hand Derek the mitten, you know."
"In that cas=
e,
let us hope that she will look more favorably on young Pilkington."
"Yes," =
said
Freddie. "Well, yes. But--well, I wouldn't call the Pilker a very ripe
sporting proposition. About sixty to one against is the way I should figure=
it,
if I were making a book. It may be just because I'm feeling a bit pipped th=
is
morning--got turfed out of bed at seven o'clock and all that--but I have an
idea that she may give both of them the old razz. May be wrong, of
course."
"Let us hope
that you are, my boy," said Uncle Chris gravely. "For in that cas=
e I
should be forced into a course of action from which I confess that I
shrink."
"I don't
follow."
"Freddie, my
boy, you are a very old friend of Jill's and I am her uncle. I feel that I =
can
speak plainly to you. Jill is the dearest thing to me in the world. She tru=
sted
me, and I failed her. I was responsible for the loss of her money, and my o=
ne
object in life is to see her by some means or other in a position equal to =
the
one of which I deprived her. If she marries a rich man, well and good. That=
, provided
she marries him because she is fond of him, will be the very best thing that
can happen. But if she does not there is another way. It may be possible fo=
r me
to marry a rich woman."
Freddie stopped,
appalled.
"Good God! Y=
ou
don't mean . . . you aren't thinking of marrying Mrs Peagrim!"
"I wouldn't =
have
mentioned names, but, as you have guessed . . . Yes, if the worst comes to =
the
worst, I shall make the supreme sacrifice. Tonight will decide. Goodbye, my
boy. I want to look in at my club for a few minutes. Tell Underhill that he=
has
my best wishes."
"I'll bet he
has!" gasped Freddie.
1.
It is safest for =
the
historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till a thing has happened before
writing about it. Otherwise he may commit himself to statements which are n=
ot
borne out by the actual facts. Mrs Peagrim, recording in advance the succes=
s of
her party at the Gotham Theatre, had done this. It is true that she was a
"radiant and vivacious hostess," and it is possible, her standard=
not
being very high, that she had "never looked more charming." But,
when, she went on to say that all present were in agreement that they had n=
ever
spent a more delightful evening, she deceived the public. Uncle Chris, for =
one;
Otis Pilkington, for another, and Freddie Rooke, for a third, were so far f=
rom
spending a delightful evening that they found it hard to mask their true
emotions and keep a smiling face to the world.
Otis Pilkington,
indeed, found it impossible, and, ceasing to try, left early. Just twenty
minutes after the proceedings had begun, he seized his coat and hat, shot o=
ut
into the night, made off blindly up Broadway, and walked twice round Central
Park before his feet gave out and he allowed himself to be taken back to his
apartment in a taxi. He tried to tell himself that this was only what he ha=
d expected,
but was able to draw no consolation from the fact. He tried to tell himself
that Jill might change her mind, but hope refused to stir. Jill had been ve=
ry
kind and very sweet and very regretful, but it was only too manifest that on
the question of becoming Mrs Otis Pilkington her mind was made up. She was
willing to like him, to be a sister to him, to watch his future progress wi=
th
considerable interest, but she would not marry him.
One feels sorry f=
or
Otis Pilkington in his hour of travail. This was the fifth or sixth time th=
at
this sort of thing had happened to him, and he was getting tired of it. If =
he
could have looked into the future--five years almost to a day from that
evening--and seen himself walking blushfully down the aisle of St. Thomas' =
with
Roland Trevis' sister Angela on his arm, his gloom might have been lightene=
d.
More probably, however, it would have been increased. At the moment, Roland
Trevis' sister Angela was fifteen, frivolous, and freckled and, except that=
he
rather disliked her and suspected her--correctly--of laughing at him, amoun=
ted
to just nil in Mr Pilkington's life. The idea of linking his lot with hers
would have appalled him, enthusiastically though he was in favor of it five=
years
later.
However, Mr
Pilkington was unable to look into the future, so his reflections on this n=
ight
of sorrow were not diverted from Jill. He thought sadly of Jill till
two-thirty, when he fell asleep in his chair and dreamed of her. At seven
o'clock his Japanese valet, who had been given the night off, returned home,
found him, and gave him breakfast. After which, Mr Pilkington went to bed,
played three games of solitaire, and slept till dinner-time, when he awoke =
to
take up the burden of life again. He still brooded on the tragedy which had=
shattered
him. Indeed, it was only two weeks later, when at a dance he was introduced=
to
a red-haired girl from Detroit, that he really got over it.
=
*
* &nbs=
p;
*
The news was conv=
eyed
to Freddie Rooke by Uncle Chris. Uncle Chris, with something of the emotion=
s of
a condemned man on the scaffold waiting for a reprieve, had watched Jill an=
d Mr
Pilkington go off together into the dim solitude at the back of the orchest=
ra
chairs, and, after an all too brief interval, had observed the latter whizz=
ing
back, his every little movement having a meaning of its own--and that meani=
ng
one which convinced Uncle Chris that Freddie, in estimating Mr Pilkington a=
s a
sixty to one chance, had not erred in his judgment of form.
Uncle Chris found
Freddie in one of the upper boxes, talking to Nelly Bryant. Dancing was goi=
ng
on down on the stage, but Freddie, though normally a young man who shook a
skilful shoe, was in no mood for dancing tonight. The return to the scenes =
of
his former triumphs and the meeting with the companions of happier days,
severed from him by a two-weeks' notice, had affected Freddie powerfully.
Eyeing the happy throng below, he experienced the emotions of that Peri who=
, in
the poem, "at the gate of Eden stood disconsolate."
Excusing himself =
from
Nelly and following Uncle Chris into the passage-way outside the box, he he=
ard
the other's news listlessly. It came as no shock to Freddie. He had never
thought Mr Pilkington anything to write home about, and had never supposed =
that
Jill would accept him. He said as much. Sorry for the chap in a way, and al=
l that,
but had never imagined for an instant that he would click.
"Where is
Underhill?" asked Uncle Chris, agitated.
"Derek? Oh, =
he
isn't here yet."
"But why isn=
't
he here? I understood that you were bringing him with you."
"That was the
scheme, but it seems he had promised some people he met on the boat to go t=
o a
theatre and have a bit of supper with them afterwards. I only heard about it
when I got back this morning."
"Good God, b=
oy!
Didn't you tell him that Jill would be here tonight?"
"Oh, rather.=
And
he's coming on directly he can get away from these people. Forget their nam=
e,
but they're influential coves who can do him a bit of good and all that sor=
t of
thing. The man--the head of the gang, you know--is something connected with=
the
Cabinet or the Prime Minister or something. You'd know his name in a minute=
if
I told you--always seeing it in the papers--they have pictures of him in Pu=
nch
a lot--but I'm rotten at names. Derek did tell me, but it's slipped the old
bean. Well, he had to leg it with these people, but he's coming on later. O=
ught
to be here any moment now."
Uncle Chris pluck=
ed
at his mustache gloomily. Freddie's detachment depressed him. He had looked=
for
more animation and a greater sense of the importance of the issue.
"Well, pip-p=
ip
for the present," said Freddie, moving toward the box. "Have to be
getting back. See you later."
He disappeared, a=
nd
Uncle Chris turned slowly to descend the stairs. As he reached the floor be=
low,
the door of the stage-box opened, and Mrs Peagrim came out.
"Oh, Major S=
elby!"
cried the radiant and vivacious hostess. "I couldn't think where you h=
ad
got to. I have been looking for you everywhere."
Uncle Chris quive=
red
slightly, but braced himself to do his duty.
"May I have =
the
pleasure . . . ?" he began, then broke off as he saw the man who had c=
ome
out of the box behind his hostess. "Underhill!" He grasped his ha=
nd
and shook it warmly. "My dear fellow! I had no notion that you had
arrived!"
"Sir Derek c=
ame
just a moment ago," said Mrs Peagrim.
"How are you,
Major Selby?" said Derek. He was a little surprised at the warmth of h=
is
reception. He had not anticipated this geniality.
"My dear fel=
low,
I'm delighted to see you," cried Uncle Chris. "But, as I was sayi=
ng,
Mrs Peagrim, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"
"I don't thi=
nk I
will dance this one," said Mrs Peagrim surprisingly. "I'm sure you
two must have ever so much to talk about. Why don't you take Sir Derek and =
give
him a cup of coffee?"
"Capital
idea!" said Uncle Chris. "Come this way, my dear fellow. As Mrs
Peagrim says, I have ever so much to talk about. Along this passage, my boy=
. Be
careful. There's a step. Weil, well, well! It's delightful to see you
again!" He massaged Derek's arm affectionately. Every time he had met =
Mrs
Peagrim that evening he had quailed inwardly at what lay before him, should
some hitch occur to prevent the re-union of Derek and Jill: and, now that t=
he
other was actually here, handsomer than ever and more than ever the sort of=
man
no girl could resist, he declined to admit the possibility of a hitch. His =
spirits
soared. "You haven't seen Jill yet, of course?"
"No." D=
erek
hesitated. "Is Jill . . . Does she . . . I mean . . ."
Uncle Chris resum= ed his osteopathy. He kneaded his companion's coat-sleeve with a jovial hand.<= o:p>
"My dear fel=
low,
of course! I am sure that a word or two from you will put everything right.=
We
all make mistakes. I have made them myself. I am convinced that everything =
will
be perfectly all right . . . Ah, there she is. Jill, my dear, here is an old
friend to see you!"
2.
Since the hurried
departure of Mr Pilkington, Jill had been sitting in the auditorium, lazily
listening to the music and watching the couples dancing on the stage. She d=
id
not feel like dancing herself, but it was pleasant to be there and too much
exertion to get up and go home. She found herself drifting into a mood of
gentle contentment, and was at a loss to account for this. She was happy,--=
quietly
and peacefully happy, when she was aware that she ought to have been both
agitated and apprehensive. When she had anticipated the recent interview wi=
th
Otis Pilkington, which she had known was bound to come sooner or later, it =
had
been shrinkingly and with foreboding. She hated hurting people's feelings, =
and,
though she read Mr Pilkington's character accurately enough to know that ti=
me would
heal any anguish which she might cause him, she had had no doubt that the
temperamental surface of that long young man, when he succeeded in getting =
her
alone, was going to be badly bruised. And it had fallen out just as she had
expected. Mr Pilkington had said his say and departed, a pitiful figure, a
spectacle which should have wrung her heart. It had not wrung her heart. Ex=
cept
for one fleeting instant when she was actually saying the fatal words, it h=
ad
not interfered with her happiness at all; and already she was beginning to
forget that the incident had ever happened.
And, if the past
should have depressed her, the future might have been expected to depress h=
er
even more. There was nothing in it, either immediate or distant, which could
account for her feeling gently contented. The future was a fog, into which =
she
had to grope her way blindly. She could not see a step ahead. And yet, as s=
he leaned
back in her seat, her heart was dancing in time to the dance-music of Mrs
Peagrim's hired orchestra. It puzzled Jill.
And then, quite
suddenly yet with no abruptness or sense of discovery, just as if it were
something which she had known all along, the truth came upon her. It was Wa=
lly,
the thought of Wally, the knowledge that Wally existed, that made her happy=
. He
was a solid, comforting, reassuring fact in a world of doubts and perplexit=
ies.
She did not need to be with him to be fortified, it was enough just to thin=
k of
him. Present or absent, his personality heartened her like fine weather or
music or a sea-breeze,--or like that friendly, soothing night-light which t=
hey
used to leave in her nursery when she was little, to scare away the goblins=
and
see her safely over the road that led to the gates of the city of dreams.
Suppose there wer=
e no
Wally . . .
Jill gave a sudden
gasp, and sat up, tingling. She felt as she had sometimes felt as a child,
when, on the edge of sleep, she had dreamed that she was stepping of a
precipice and had woken, tense and alert, to find that there was no danger
after all. But there was a difference between that feeling and this. She had
woken, but to find that there was danger. It was as though some inner voice=
was
calling to her to be careful, to take thought. Suppose there were no Wally?=
. .
. And why should there always be Wally? He had said confidently enough that
there would never be another girl . . . But there were thousands of other
girls, millions of other girls, and could she suppose that one of them would
not have the sense to snap up a treasure like Wally? A sense of blank
desolation swept over Jill. Her quick imagination, leaping ahead, had made =
the
vague possibility of a distant future an accomplished fact. She felt, absur=
dly,
a sense of overwhelming loss.
Into her mind, ne=
ver
far distant from it, came the thought of Derek. And, suddenly, Jill made
another discovery. She was thinking of Derek, and it was not hurting. She w=
as
thinking of him quite coolly and clearly and her heart was not aching.
She sat back and
screwed her eyes tight, as she had always done when puzzled. Something had
happened to her, but how it had happened and when it had happened and why it
had happened she could not understand. She only knew that now for the first
time she had been granted a moment of clear vision and was seeing things tr=
uly.
She wanted Wally.=
She
wanted him in the sense that she could not do without him. She felt nothing=
of
the fiery tumult which had come upon her when she first met Derek. She and
Wally would come together with a smile and build their life on an enduring
foundation of laughter and happiness and good-fellowship. Wally had never
shaken and never would shake her senses as Derek had done. If that was love,
then she did not love Wally. But her clear vision told her that it was not =
love.
It might be the blazing and crackling of thorns, but it was not the fire. S=
he
wanted Wally. She needed him as she needed the air and the sunlight.
She opened her ey=
es,
and saw Uncle Chris coming down the aisle towards her. There was a man with
him, and, as they moved closer in the dim light, Jill saw that it was Derek=
.
"Jill, my
dear," said Uncle Chris, "here is an old friend to see you!"=
And, having achie=
ved
their bringing together, he proceeded to withdraw delicately whence he had
come. It is pleasant to be able to record that he was immediately seized up=
on
by Mrs Peagrim, who had changed her mind about not dancing, and led off to =
be
her partner in a fox-trot, in the course of which she trod on his feet three
times.
"Why,
Derek!" said Jill cheerfully. She got up and moved down the line of se=
ats.
Except for a mild wonder how he came to be there, she found herself wholly
unaffected by the sight of him. "Whatever are you doing here?"
Derek sat down be=
side
her. The cordiality of her tone had relieved yet at the same time disconcer=
ted
him. Man seldom attains to perfect contentment in this world, and Derek, wh=
ile
pleased that Jill apparently bore him no ill-will, seemed to miss something=
in
her manner which he would have been glad to find there.
"Jill!"=
he
said huskily.
It deemed to Derek only decent to speak huskily. To his orderly mind this situation could be handled only in one way. It was a plain, straight issue of the strong man humbling himself--not too much, of course, but sufficiently: and it called,= in his opinion, for the low voice, the clenched hand, and the broken whisper. Speaking as he had spoken, he had given the scene the right key from the start,--or would have done if she had not got in ahead of him and opened it= on a note of absurd cheeriness. Derek found himself resenting her cheeriness. Often as he had attempted during the voyage from England to visualize to himself this first meeting, he had never pictured Jill smiling brightly at = him. It was a jolly smile, and made her look extremely pretty, but it jarred upon him. A moment before he had been half relieved, half disconcerted: now he w= as definitely disconcerted. He searched in his mind for a criticism of her attitude, and came to the conclusion that what was wrong with it was that it was too friendly. Friendliness is well enough in its way, but in what shoul= d have been a tense clashing of strong emotions it did not seem to Derek fitting.<= o:p>
"Did you hav=
e a
pleasant trip?" asked Jill. "Have you come over on business?"=
;
A feeling of
bewilderment came upon Derek. It was wrong, it was all wrong. Of course, she
might be speaking like this to cloak intense feeling, but, if so, she had
certainly succeeded. From her manner, he and she might be casual acquaintan=
ces.
A pleasant trip! In another minute she would be asking him how he had come =
out
on the sweepstake on the ship's run. With a sense of putting his shoulder to
some heavy weight and heaving at it, he sought to lift the conversation to =
a higher
plane.
"I came to f=
ind
you!" he said; still huskily but not so huskily as before. There are
degrees of huskiness, and Derek's was sharpened a little by a touch of
irritation.
"Yes?" =
said
Jill.
Derek was now
fermenting. What she ought to have said, he did not know, but he knew that =
it
was not "Yes?" "Yes?" in the circumstances was almost as
bad as "Really?"
There was a pause.
Jill was looking at him with a frank and unembarrassed gaze which somehow
deepened his sense of annoyance. Had she looked at him coldly, he could have
understood and even appreciated it. He had been expecting coldness, and had
braced himself to combat it. He was still not quite sure in his mind whethe=
r he
was playing the role of a penitent or a King Cophetua, but in either charac=
ter
he might have anticipated a little temporary coldness, which it would have =
been
his easy task to melt. But he had never expected to be looked at as if he w=
ere
a specimen in a museum, and that was how he was feeling now. Jill was not
looking at him--she was inspecting him, examining him, and he chafed under =
the
process.
Jill, unconscious=
of
the discomfort she was causing, continued to gaze. She was trying to discov=
er
in just what respect he had changed from the god he had been. Certainly not=
in
looks. He was as handsome as ever,--handsomer, indeed, for the sunshine and
clean breezes of the Atlantic had given him an exceedingly becoming coat of
tan. And yet he must have changed, for now she could look upon him quite di=
spassionately
and criticize him without a tremor. It was like seeing a copy of a great
painting. Everything was there, except the one thing that mattered, the mag=
ic
and the glamour. It was like . . . She suddenly remembered a scene in the
dressing-room when the company had been in Baltimore. Lois Denham, duly the
recipient of the sunburst which her friend Izzy had promised her, had
unfortunately, in a spirit of girlish curiosity, taken it to a jeweller to =
be priced,
and the jeweller had blasted her young life by declaring it a paste imitati=
on.
Jill recalled how the stricken girl--previous to calling Izzy on the long
distance and telling him a number of things which, while probably not news =
to
him, must have been painful hearing--had passed the vile object round the
dressing-room for inspection. The imitation was perfect. It had been imposs=
ible
for the girls to tell that the stones were not real diamonds. Yet the jewel=
ler,
with his sixth sense, had seen through them in a trifle under ten seconds. =
Jill
come to the conclusion that her newly-discovered love for Wally Mason had
equipped her with a sixth sense, and that by its aid she was really for the
first time seeing Derek as he was.
Derek had not the
privilege of being able to read Jill's thoughts. All he could see was the o=
uter
Jill, and the outer Jill, as she had always done, was stirring his emotions.
Her daintiness afflicted him. Not for the first, the second, or the third t=
ime
since they had come into each other's lives, he was astounded at the streng=
th
of the appeal which Jill had for him when they were together, as contrasted=
with
its weakness when they were apart. He made another attempt to establish the
scene on a loftier plane.
"What a fool=
I
was!" he sighed. "Jill! Can you ever forgive me?"
He tried to take =
her
hand. Jill skilfully eluded him.
"Why, of cou=
rse
I've forgiven you, Derek, if there was anything to forgive."
"Anything to
forgive!" Derek began to get into his stride. These were the lines on
which he had desired the interview to develop. "I was a brute! A
cad!"
"Oh, no!&quo=
t;
"I was. Oh, I
have been through hell!"
Jill turned her h=
ead
away. She did not want to hurt him, but nothing could have kept her from
smiling. She had been so sure that he would say that sooner or later.
"Jill!"
Derek had misinterpreted the cause of her movement, and had attributed it to
emotion. "Tell me that everything is as it was before."
Jill turned.
"I'm afraid I
can't say that, Derek."
"Of course
not!" agreed Derek in a comfortable glow of manly remorse. He liked
himself in the character of the strong man abased. "It would be too mu=
ch,
to expect, I know. But, when we are married . . ."
"Do you real=
ly
want to marry me?"
"Jill!"=
"I wonder!&q=
uot;
"How can you
doubt it?"
Jill looked at hi=
m.
"Have you
thought what it would mean?"
"What it wou=
ld
mean?"
"Well, your
mother . . ."
"Oh!" D=
erek
dismissed Lady Underhill with a grand gesture.
"Yes,"
persisted Jill, "but, if she disapproved of your marrying me before,
wouldn't she disapprove a good deal more now, when I haven't a penny in the
world and am just in the chorus . . ."
A sort of strangl=
ed sound
proceeded from Derek's throat.
"In the
chorus!"
"Didn't you
know? I thought Freddie must have told you."
"In the
chorus!" Derek stammered. "I thought you were here as a guest of =
Mrs
Peagrim's."
"So I am,--l=
ike
all the rest of the company."
"But . . . B=
ut .
. ."
"You see, it
would be bound to make everything a little difficult," said Jill. Her =
face
was grave, but her lips were twitching. "I mean, you are rather a
prominent man, aren't you, and if you married a chorus-girl . . ."
"Nobody woul=
d know,"
said Derek limply.
Jill opened her e=
yes.
"Nobody would
know!" She laughed. "But, of course, you've never met our
press-agent. If you think that nobody would know that a girl in the company=
had
married a baronet who was a member of parliament and expected to be in the
Cabinet in a few years, you're wronging him! The news would be on the front
page of all the papers the very next day--columns of it, with photographs.
There would be articles about it in the Sunday papers. Illustrated! And the=
n it
would be cabled to England and would appear in the papers there . . . You s=
ee,
you're a very important person, Derek."
Derek sat clutchi=
ng
the arms of his chair. His face was chalky. Though he had never been inclin=
ed
to underestimate his importance as a figure in the public eye, he had
overlooked the disadvantages connected with such an eminence. He gurgled
wordlessly. He had been prepared to brave Lady Underhill's wrath and assert=
his
right to marry whom he pleased, but this was different.
Jill watched him =
curiously
and with a certain pity. It was so easy to read what was passing in his min=
d.
She wondered what he would say, how he would flounder out of his unfortunate
position. She had no illusions about him now. She did not even contemplate =
the
possibility of chivalry winning the battle which was going on within him.
"It would be
very awkward, wouldn't it?" she said.
And then pity had=
its
way with Jill. He had treated her badly; for a time she had thought that he=
had
crushed all the heart out of her: but he was suffering, and she hated to see
anybody suffer.
"Besides,&qu=
ot;
she said, "I'm engaged to somebody else."
As a suffocating =
man,
his lips to the tube of oxygen, gradually comes back to life, Derek
revived,--slowly as the meaning of her words sank into his mind, then with a
sudden abruptness.
"What!"=
he
cried.
"I'm going to
marry somebody else. A man named Wally Mason."
Derek swallowed. =
The
chalky look died out of his face, and he flushed hotly. His eyes, half
relieved, half indignant, glowed under their pent-house of eyebrow. He sat =
for
a moment in silence.
"I think you
might have told me before!" he said huffily.
Jill laughed.
"Yes, I supp=
ose
I ought to have told you before."
"Leading me =
on .
. . !"
Jill patted him on
the arm.
"Never mind,
Derek! It's all over now. And it was great fun, wasn't it!"
"Fun!"<= o:p>
"Shall we go=
and
dance? The music is just starting."
"I won't
dance!"
Jill got up.
"I must,&quo=
t;
she said. "I'm so happy I can't keep still. Well, good-bye, Derek, in =
case
I don't see you again. It was nice meeting after all this time. You haven't
altered a bit!"
Derek watched her
flit down the aisle, saw her jump up the little ladder onto the stage, watc=
hed
her vanish into the swirl of the dance. He reached for a cigarette, opened =
his
case, and found it empty. He uttered a mirthless, Byronic laugh. The thing
seemed to him symbolic.
3.
Not having a
cigarette of his own, Derek got up and went to look for the only man he knew
who could give him one: and after a search of a few minutes came upon Fredd=
ie
all alone in a dark corner, apart from the throng. It was a very different
Freddie from the moody youth who had returned to the box after his conversa=
tion
with Uncle Chris. He was leaning against a piece of scenery with his head
tilted back and a beam of startled happiness on his face. So rapt was he in=
his
reflections that he did not become aware of Derek's approach until the latt=
er
spoke.
"Got a
cigarette, Freddie?"
Freddie withdrew =
his
gaze from the roof.
"Hullo, old =
son!
Cigarette? Certainly and by all means. Cigarettes? Where are the cigarettes?
Mr. Rooke, forward! Show cigarettes." He extended his case to Derek, w=
ho
helped himself in sombre silence, finding his boyhood's friend's exuberance
hard to bear. "I say, Derek, old scream, the most extraordinary thing =
has
happened! You'll never guess. To cut a long story short and come to the
blow-out of the scenario, I'm engaged! Engaged, old crumpet! You know what =
I mean--engaged
to be married!"
"Uh?" s=
aid
Derek gruffly, frowning over his cigarette.
"Don't wonder
you're surprised," said Freddie, looking at him a little wistfully, for
his friend had scarcely been gushing, and he would have welcomed a bit of
enthusiasm. "Can hardly believe it myself."
Derek awoke to a
sense of the conventions.
"Congratulate
you," he said. "Do I know her?"
"Not yet, but
you soon will. She's a girl in the company,--in the chorus, as a matter of
fact. Girl named Nelly Bryant. An absolute corker. I'll go further--a toppe=
r.
You'll like her, old man."
Derek was looking=
at him,
amazed.
"Good
Heavens!" he said.
"Extraordina=
ry
how these things happen," proceeded Freddie. "Looking back, I can
see, of course, that I always thought her a topper, but the idea of getting
engaged--I don't know--sort of thing that doesn't occur to a chappie, if you
know what I mean. What I mean to say is, we had always been the greatest of
pals and all that, but it never struck me that she would think it much of a
wheeze getting hooked up for life with a chap like me. We just sort of drif=
ted
along and so forth. All very jolly and what not. And then this evening--I d=
on't
know. I had a bit of a hump, what with one thing and another, and she was m=
ost
dashed sweet and patient and soothing and--and--well, and what not, don't y=
ou
know, and suddenly--deuced rummy sensation--the jolly old scales seemed to
fall, if you follow me, from my good old eyes; I don't know if you get the
idea. I suddenly seemed to look myself squarely in the eyeball and say to
myself, 'Freddie, old top, how do we go? Are we not missing a good thing?' =
And,
by Jove, thinking it over, I found that I was absolutely correct-o! You've =
no notion
how dashed sympathetic she is, old man! I mean to say, I had this hump, you
know, owing to one thing and another, and was feeling that life was more or
less of a jolly old snare and delusion, and she bucked me up and all that, =
and
suddenly I found myself kissing her and all that sort of rot, and she was
kissing me and so on and so forth, and she's got the most ripping eyes, and
there was nobody about, and the long and the short of it was, old boy, that=
I
said, 'Let's get married!' and she said, 'When?' and that was that, if you =
see
what I mean. The scheme now is to pop down to the City Hall and get a licen=
se,
which it appears you have to have if you want to bring this sort of binge o=
ff
with any success and vim, and then what ho for the padre! Looking at it from
every angle, a bit of a good egg, what! Happiest man in the world, and all =
that
sort of thing."
At this point in =
his
somewhat incoherent epic Freddie paused. It had occurred to him that he had
perhaps laid himself open to a charge of monopolizing the conversation.
"I say! You'=
ll
forgive my dwelling a bit on this thing, won't you? Never found a girl who
would look twice at me before, and it's rather unsettled the old bean. Just
occurred to me that I may have been talking about my own affairs a bit. Your
turn now, old thing. Sit down, as the blighters in the novels used to say, =
and
tell me the story of your life. You've seen Jill, of course?"
"Yes," =
said
Derek shortly.
"And it's all
right, eh? Fine! We'll make a double wedding of it, what? Not a bad idea, t=
hat!
I mean to say, the man of God might make a reduction for quantity and shade=
his
fee a bit. Do the job half price!"
Derek threw down =
the
end of his cigarette, and crushed it with his heel. A closer observer than
Freddie would have detected long ere this the fact that his demeanor was not
that of a happy and successful wooer.
"Jill and I =
are
not going to be married," he said.
A look of blank
astonishment came into Freddie's cheerful face. He could hardly believe tha=
t he
had heard correctly. It is true that, in gloomier mood, he had hazarded the
theory to Uncle Chris that Jill's independence might lead her to refuse Der=
ek,
but he had not really believed in the possibility of such a thing even at t=
he
time, and now, in the full flood of optimism consequent on his own engageme=
nt, it
seemed even more incredible.
"Great
Scott!" he cried. "Did she give you the raspberry?"
It is to be doubt=
ed
whether the pride of the Underhills would have permitted Derek to reply in =
the
affirmative, even if Freddie had phrased his question differently: but the
brutal directness of the query made such a course impossible for him. Nothi=
ng
was dearer to Derek than his self-esteem, and, even at the expense of the
truth, he was resolved to shield it from injury. To face Freddie and confes=
s that
any girl in the world had given him, Derek Underhill, what he coarsely term=
ed
the raspberry was a task so revolting as to be utterly beyond his powers.
"Nothing of =
the
kind!" he snapped. "It was because we both saw that the thing wou=
ld
be impossible. Why didn't you tell me that Jill was in the chorus of this
damned piece?"
Freddie's mouth
slowly opened. He was trying not to realize the meaning of what his friend =
was
saying. His was a faithful soul, and for years--to all intents and purposes=
for
practically the whole of his life--he had looked up to Derek and reverenced
him. He absolutely refused to believe that Derek was intending to convey wh=
at
he seemed to be trying to convey: for, if he was, well . . . by Jove . . . =
it was
too rotten and Algy Martyn had been right after all and the fellow was simp=
ly .
. .
"You don't m=
ean,
old man," said Freddie with an almost pleading note in his voice,
"that you're going to back out of marrying Jill because she's in the
chorus?"
Derek looked away,
and scowled. He was finding Freddie, in the capacity of inquisitor, as tryi=
ng
as he had found him in the role of exuberant fiancé. It offended his=
pride
to have to make explanations to one whom he had always regarded with a
patronizing tolerance as not a bad fellow in his way but in every essential=
respect
negligible.
"I have to be
sensible," he said, chafing as the indignity of his position intruded =
itself
more and more. "You know what it would mean . . . Paragraphs in all the
papers . . . photographs . . . the news cabled to England . . . everybody
reading it and misunderstanding . . . I've got my career to think of . . . =
It
would cripple me . . ."
His voice trailed
off, and there was silence for a moment. Then Freddie burst into speech. His
good-natured face was hard with unwonted scorn. Its cheerful vacuity had
changed to stony contempt. For the second time in the evening the jolly old
scales had fallen from Freddie's good old eyes, and, as Jill had done, he s=
aw
Derek as he was.
"My sainted
aunt!" he said slowly. "So that's it, what! Well, I've always tho=
ught
a dashed lot of you, as you know. I've always looked up to you as a bit of a
nib and wished I was like you. But, great Scott! if that's the sort of a ch=
ap
you are, I'm deuced glad I'm not! I'm going to wake up in the middle of the
night and think how unlike you I am and pat myself on the back! Ronny Dever=
eux
was perfectly right. A tick's a tick, and that's all there is to say about =
it.
Good old Ronny told me what you were, and, like a silly ass, I wasted a lot=
of
time trying to make him believe you weren't that sort of chap at all. It's =
no
good standing there looking like your mother," said Freddie firmly.
"This is where we jolly well part brass-rags! If we ever meet again, I=
'll
trouble you not to speak to me, because I've a reputation to keep up! So th=
ere
you have it in a bally nutshell!"
Scarcely had Fred=
die
ceased to administer it to his former friend in a bally nutshell, when Uncle
Chris, warm and dishevelled from the dance as interpreted by Mrs Waddesleigh
Peagrim, came bustling up, saving Derek the necessity of replying to the
harangue.
"Well,
Underhill, my dear fellow," began Uncle Chris affably, attaching himse=
lf
to the other's arm, "what . . . ?"
He broke off, for
Derek, freeing his arm with a wrench, turned and walked rapidly away. Derek=
had
no desire to go over the whole thing again with Uncle Chris. He wanted to be
alone, to build up, painfully and laboriously, the ruins of his self-esteem.
The pride of the Underhills had had a bad evening.
Uncle Chris turne=
d to
Freddie.
"What is the
matter?" he asked blankly.
"I'll tell y=
ou
what's the jolly old matter!" cried Freddie. "The blighter isn't
going to marry poor Jill after all! He's changed his rotten mind! It's
off!"
"Off?"<= o:p>
"Absolutely
off!"
"Absolutely
off?"
"Napoo!"
said Freddie. "He's afraid of what will happen to his blasted career i=
f he
marries a girl who's been in the chorus."
"But, my dear
boy!" Uncle Chris blinked. "But, my dear boy! This is ridiculous =
. .
. Surely, if I were to speak a word . . ."
"You can if =
you
like. I wouldn't speak to the cootie again if you paid me! But it won't do =
any
good, so what's the use?"
Slowly Uncle Chris
adjusted his mind to the disaster.
"Then you me=
an .
. . ?"
"It's off!&q=
uot;
said Freddie.
For a moment Uncle
Chris stood motionless. Then, with a sudden jerk, he seemed to stiffen his
backbone. His face was bleak, but he pulled at his mustache jauntily.
"Morituri te
salutant!" he said. "Good-bye, Freddie, my boy."
He turned away,
gallant and upright, the old soldier.
"Where are y=
ou
going?" asked Freddie.
"Over the
top!" said Uncle Chris.
"What do you
mean?"
"I am
going," said Uncle Chris steadily, "to find Mrs Peagrim!"
"Good God!&q=
uot;
cried Freddie. He followed him, protesting weakly, but the other gave no si=
gn
that he had heard. Freddie saw him disappear into the stage-box, and, turni=
ng,
found Jill at his elbow.
"Where did U=
ncle
Chris go?" asked Jill. "I want to speak to him."
"He's in the
stage-box, with Mrs Peagrim."
"With Mrs
Peagrim?"
"Proposing to
her," said Freddie solemnly.
Jill stared.
"Proposing to
Mrs Peagrim? What do you mean?"
Freddie drew her
aside, and began to explain.
4.
In the dimness of=
the
stage-box, his eyes a little glassy and a dull despair in his soul, Uncle C=
hris
was wondering how to begin. In his hot youth he had been rather a devil of a
fellow in between dances, a coo-er of soft phrases and a stealer of never v=
ery
stoutly withheld kisses. He remembered one time in Bangalore . . . but that=
had
nothing to do with the case. The point was, how to begin with Mrs Peagrim. =
The
fact that twenty-five years ago he had crushed in his arms beneath the shad=
ows
of the deodars a girl whose name he had forgotten, though he remembered that
she had worn a dress of some pink stuff, was immaterial and irrelevant. Was=
he
to crush Mrs Peagrim in his arms? Not, thought Uncle Chris to himself, on a
bet. He contented himself for the moment with bending an intense gaze upon =
her
and asking if she was tired.
"A little,&q=
uot;
panted Mrs Peagrim, who, though she danced often and vigorously, was never =
in
the best of condition, owing to her habit of neutralizing the beneficient
effects of exercise by surreptitious candy-eating. "I'm a little out of
breath."
Uncle Chris had
observed this for himself, and it had not helped him to face his task. Love=
ly
woman loses something of her queenly dignity when she puffs. Inwardly, he w=
as
thinking how exactly his hostess resembled the third from the left of a tro=
upe
of performing sea-lions which he had seen some years ago on one of his rare
visits to a vaudeville house.
"You ought n=
ot
to tire yourself," he said with a difficult tenderness.
"I am so fon=
d of
dancing," pleaded Mrs Peagrim. Recovering some of her breath, she gaze=
d at
her companion with a sort of short-winded archness. "You are always so
sympathetic, Major Selby."
"Am I?"
said Uncle Chris. "Am I?"
"You know you
are!"
Uncle Chris swall=
owed
quickly.
"I wonder if=
you
have ever wondered," he began, and stopped. He felt that he was not
putting it as well as he might. "I wonder if it has ever struck you th=
at
there's a reason." He stopped again. He seemed to remember reading
something like that in an advertisement in a magazine, and he did not want =
to
talk like an advertisement. "I wonder if it has ever struck you, Mrs.
Peagrim," he began again, "that any sympathy on my part might be =
due
to some deeper emotion which . . . Have you never suspected that you have n=
ever
suspected . . ." Uncle Chris began to feel that he must brace himself =
up.
Usually a man of fluent speech, he was not at his best tonight. He was just
about to try again, when he caught his hostess' eye, and the soft gleam in =
it sent
him cowering back into the silence as if he wore taking cover from an enemy=
's
shrapnel.
Mrs Peagrim touch=
ed
him on the arm.
"You were sa=
ying
. . . ?" she murmured encouragingly.
Uncle Chris shut =
his
eyes. His fingers pressed desperately into the velvet curtain beside him. He
felt as he had felt when a raw lieutenant in India, during his first
hill-campaign, when the etiquette of the service had compelled him to rise =
and
walk up and down in front of his men under a desultory shower of
jezail-bullets. He seemed to hear the damned things whop-whopping now . . .=
and
almost wished that he could really hear them. One or two good bullets just =
now
would be a welcome diversion.
"Yes?" =
said
Mrs Peagrim.
"Have you ne=
ver
felt," babbled Uncle Chris, "that, feeling as I feel, I might have
felt . . . that is to say, might be feeling a feeling . . . ?"
There was a tap at
the door of the box. Uncle Chris started violently. Jill came in.
"Oh, I beg y=
our
pardon," she said. "I wanted to speak . . ."
"You wanted =
to
speak to me?" said Uncle Chris, bounding up. "Certainly, certainl=
y,
certainly, of course. If you will excuse me for a moment?"
Mrs Peagrim bowed
coldly. The interruption had annoyed her. She had no notion who Jill was, a=
nd
she resented the intrusion at this particular juncture intensely. Not so Un=
cle
Chris, who skipped out into the passage like a young lamb.
"Am I in
time?" asked Jill in a whisper.
"In time?&qu=
ot;
"You know wh=
at I
mean. Uncle Chris, listen to me! You are not to propose to that awful woman=
. Do
you understand?"
Uncle Chris shook=
his
head.
"The die is
cast!"
"The die isn=
't
anything of the sort," said Jill. "Unless . . . ." She stopp=
ed,
aghast. "You don't mean that you have done it already?"
"Well, no. T=
o be
perfectly accurate, no. But . . ."
"Then that's=
all
right. I know why you were doing it, and it was very sweet of you, but you
mustn't."
"But, Jill, =
you
don't understand."
"I do
understand."
"I have a mo=
tive
. . ."
"I know your
motive. Freddie told me. Don't you worry yourself about me, dear, because I=
am
all right. I am going to be married."
A look of ecstatic
relief came into Uncle Chris' face.
"Then Underh=
ill
. . . ?"
"I am not
marrying Derek. Somebody else. I don't think you know him, but I love him, =
and
so will you." She pulled his face down and kissed him. "Now you c=
an
go back."
Uncle Chris was
almost too overcome to speak. He gulped a little.
"Jill,"=
he
said shakily, "this is a . . . this is a great relief."
"I knew it w=
ould
be."
"If you are
really going to marry a rich man . . ."
"I didn't sa=
y he
was rich."
The joy ebbed from
Uncle Chris' face.
"If he is not
rich, if he cannot give you everything of which I . . ."
"Oh, don't be
absurd! Wally has all the money anybody needs. What's money?"
"What's
money?" Uncle Chris stared. "Money, my dear child, is . . . is . =
. .
well, you mustn't talk of it in that light way. But, if you think you will
really have enough . . . ?"
"Of course we
shall. Now you can go back. Mrs Peagrim will be wondering what has become of
you."
"Must I?&quo=
t;
said Uncle Chris doubtfully.
"Of course. =
You
must be polite."
"Very
well," said Uncle Chris. "But it will be a little difficult to co=
ntinue
the conversation on what you might call general lines. However!"
=
*
* &nbs=
p;
*
Back in the box, =
Mrs
Peagrim was fanning herself with manifest impatience.
"What did th=
at
girl want?" she demanded.
Uncle Chris seated himself with composure. The weakness had passed, and he was himself again.<= o:p>
"Oh, nothing,
nothing. Some trivial difficulty, which I was able to dispose of in a few
words."
Mrs Peagrim would
have liked to continue her researches, but a feeling that it was wiser not =
to
stray too long from the main point restrained her. She bent towards him.
"You were go=
ing
to say something when that girl interrupted us."
Uncle Chris shot =
his
cuffs with a debonair gesture.
"Was I? Was =
I?
To be sure, yes. I was saying that you ought not to let yourself get tired.
Deuce of a thing, getting tired. Plays the dickens with the system."
Mrs Peagrim was
disconcerted. The atmosphere seemed to have changed, and she did not like i=
t.
She endeavored to restore the tone of the conversation.
"You are so
sympathetic," she sighed, feeling that she could not do better than to
begin again at that point. The remark had produced good results before, and=
it
might do so a second time.
"Yes,"
agreed Uncle Chris cheerily. "You see, I have seen something of all th=
is
sort of thing, and I realize the importance of it. I know what all this mod=
ern
rush and strain of life is for a woman in your position. Parties every nigh=
t .
. . dancing . . . a thousand and one calls on the vitality . . . bound to h=
ave
an effect sooner or later, unless--unless," said Uncle Chris solemnly,
"one takes steps. Unless one acts in time. I had a friend--" His
voice sank--"I had a very dear friend over in London, Lady Alice--but =
the
name would convey nothing--the point is that she was in exactly the same po=
sition
as you. On the rush all the time. Never stopped. The end was inevitable. She
caught cold, hadn't sufficient vitality to throw it off, went to a dance in
mid-winter, contracted pneumonia . . ." Uncle Chris sighed. "All =
over
in three days," he said sadly. "Now at that time," he resume=
d,
"I did not know what I know now. If I had heard of Nervino then . .
." He shook his head. "It might have saved her life. It would have
saved her life. I tell you, Mrs Peagrim, that there is nothing, there is no
lack of vitality which Nervino cannot set right. I am no physician myself, I
speak as a layman, but it acts on the red corpuscles of the blood . . .&quo=
t;
Mrs Peagrim's face
was stony. She had not spoken before, because he had given her no opportuni=
ty,
but she spoke now in a hard voice.
"Major
Selby!"
"Mrs
Peagrim?"
"I am not
interested in patent medicines!"
"One can har=
dly
call Nervino that," said Uncle Chris reproachfully. "It is a
sovereign specific. You can get it at any drug-store. It comes in two sizes,
the dollar-fifty--or large--size, and the . . ."
Mrs Peagrim rose
majestically.
"Major Selby=
, I
am tired . . ."
"Precisely. =
And,
as I say, Nervino . . ."
"Please,&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Peagrim coldly, "go to the stage-door and see if you can fin=
d my
limousine. It should be waiting in the street."
"Certainly,&=
quot;
said Uncle Chris. "Why, certainly, certainly, certainly."
He left the box a=
nd
proceeded across the stage. He walked with a lissom jauntiness. His eye was
bright. One or two of those whom he passed on his way had the idea that this
fine-looking man was in pain. They fancied that he was moaning. But Uncle C=
hris
was not moaning. He was humming a gay snatch from the lighter music of the =
'nineties.
1.
Up on the roof of=
his
apartment, far above the bustle and clamor of the busy city, Wally Mason, at
eleven o'clock on the morning after Mrs Peagrim's bohemian party, was greet=
ing
the new day, as was his custom, by going through his ante-breakfast exercis=
es.
Mankind is divided into two classes, those who do setting-up exercises befo=
re breakfast
and those who know they ought to but don't. To the former and more praisewo=
rthy
class Wally had belonged since boyhood. Life might be vain and the world a
void, but still he touched his toes the prescribed number of times and twis=
ted
his muscular body about according to the ritual. He did so this morning a
little more vigorously than usual, partly because he had sat up too late th=
e night
before and thought too much and smoked too much, with the result that he had
risen heavy-eyed, at the present disgraceful hour, and partly because he ho=
ped
by wearying the flesh to still the restlessness of the spirit. Spring gener=
ally
made Wally restless, but never previously had it brought him this distracted
feverishness. So he lay on his back and waved his legs in the air, and it w=
as
only when he had risen and was about to go still further into the matter th=
at
he perceived Jill standing beside him.
"Good
Lord!!" said Wally.
"Don't
stop," said Jill. "I'm enjoying it."
"How long ha=
ve
you been here?"
"Oh, I only =
just
arrived. I rang the bell, and the nice old lady who is cooking your lunch t=
old
me you were out here."
"Not lunch.
Breakfast."
"Breakfast! =
At
this hour?"
"Won't you j=
oin
me?"
"I'll join y=
ou.
But I had my breakfast long ago."
Wally found his
despondency magically dispelled. It was extraordinary how the mere sight of
Jill could make the world a different place. It was true the sun had been
shining before her arrival, but in a flabby, weak-minded way, not with the
brilliance it had acquired immediately he heard her voice.
"If you don't
mind waiting for about three minutes while I have a shower and dress . .
."
"Oh, is the
entertainment over?" asked Jill, disappointed. "I always arrive t=
oo
late for everything."
"One of these
days you shall see me go through the whole programme, including shadow-boxi=
ng
and the goose-step. Bring your friends! But at the moment I think it would =
be
more of a treat for you to watch me eat an egg. Go and look at the view. Fr=
om
over there you can see Hoboken."
"I've seen i=
t. I
don't think much of it."
"Well, then,=
on
this side we have Brooklyn. There is no stint. Wander to and fro and enjoy
yourself. The rendezvous is in the sitting-room in about four moments."=
;
Wally vaulted thr=
ough
the passage-window, and disappeared. Then he returned and put his head out.=
"I say!"=
;
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Just occurr=
ed
to me. Your uncle won't be wanting this place for half an hour or so, will =
he?
I mean, there will be time for me to have a bite of breakfast?"
"I don't sup=
pose
he will require your little home till some time in the evening."
"Fine!"=
Wally disappeared
again, and a few moments later Jill heard the faint splashing of water. She
walked to the parapet and looked down. On the windows of the nearer buildin=
gs
the sun cast glittering beams, but further away a faint, translucent mist h=
id
the city. There was Spring humidity in the air. In the street she had found=
it
oppressive: but on the breezy summit of this steel-and-granite cliff the air
was cool and exhilarating. Peace stole into Jill's heart as she watched the=
boats
dropping slowly down the East River, which gleamed like dull steel through =
the
haze. She had come to Journey's End, and she was happy. Trouble and heart-a=
che
seemed as distant as those hurrying black ants down on the streets. She felt
far away from the world on an enduring mountain of rest. She gave a little =
sigh
of contentment, and turned to go in as Wally called.
In the sitting-ro=
om
her feeling of security deepened. Here, the world was farther away than eve=
r.
Even the faint noises which had risen to the roof were inaudible, and only =
the
cosy tick-tock of the grandfather's clock punctuated the stillness.
She looked at Wal=
ly
with a quickening sense of affection. He had the divine gift of silence at =
the
right time. Yes, this was home. This was where she belonged.
"It didn't t=
ake
me in, you know," said Jill at length, resting her arms on the table a=
nd
regarding him severely.
Wally looked up.<= o:p>
"What didn't
take you in?"
"That bath of
yours. Yes, I know you turned on the cold shower, but you stood at a safe
distance and watched it show!"
Wally waved his f=
ork.
"As Heaven i=
s my
witness. . . . Look at my hair! Still damp! And I can show you the towel.&q=
uot;
"Well, then,
I'll bet it was the hot water. Why weren't you at Mrs Peagrim's party last
night?"
"It would ta=
ke
too long to explain all my reasons, but one of them was that I wasn't invit=
ed.
How did it go off?"
"Splendidly.
Freddie's engaged!"
Wally lowered his
coffee cup.
"Engaged! You
don't mean what is sometimes slangily called bethrothed?"
"I do. He's
engaged to Nelly Bryant. Nelly told me all about it when she got home last
night. It seems that Freddie said to her 'What ho!' and she said 'You bet!'=
and
Freddie said 'Pip pip!' and the thing was settled." Jill bubbled.
"Freddie wants to go into vaudeville with her!"
"No! The
Juggling Rookes? Or Rooke and Bryant, the cross-talk team, a thoroughly ref=
ined
act, swell dressers on and off?"
"I don't kno=
w.
But it doesn't matter. Nelly is domestic. She's going to have a little home=
in
the country, where she can grow chickens and pigs."
"'Father's in
the pigstye, you can tell him by his hat,' eh?"
"Yes. They w=
ill
be very happy. Freddie will be a father to her parrot."
Wally's cheerfuln=
ess
diminished a trifle. The contemplation of Freddie's enviable lot brought wi=
th
it the inevitable contrast with his own. A little home in the country . . .=
Oh,
well!
2.
There was a pause.
Jill was looking a little grave.
"Wally!"=
;
"Yes?"<= o:p>
She turned her fa=
ce
away, for there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes which she did not wish =
him
to observe.
"Derek was at
the party!"
Wally had been ab=
out
to butter a piece of toast. The butter, jerked from the knife by the convul=
sive
start which he gave, popped up in a semi-circle and plumped onto the
tablecloth. He recovered himself quickly.
"Sorry!"=
; he
said. "You mustn't mind that. They want me to be second-string for the
'Boosting the Butter' event at the next Olympic Games, and I'm practising a=
ll
the time. . . . Underhill was there, eh?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"You met
him?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
Derek fiddled with
his knife.
"Did he come
over . . . I mean . . . had he come specially to see you?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"I see."=
;
There was another
pause.
"He wants to
marry you?"
"He said he
wanted to marry me."
Wally got up and =
went
to the window. Jill could smile safely now, and she did, but her voice was
still grave.
"What ought =
I to
do, Wally? I thought I would ask you, as you are such a friend."
Wally spoke witho=
ut
turning.
"You ought to
marry him, of course."
"You think
so?"
"You ought to
marry him, of course," said Wally doggedly. "You love him, and the
fact that he came all the way to America must mean that he still loves you.
Marry him!"
"But . . .&q=
uot;
Jill hesitated. "You see, there's a difficulty."
"What
difficulty?"
"Well . . . =
it
was something I said to him just before he went away. I said something that
made it a little difficult."
Wally continued to
inspect the roofs below.
"What did you
say?"
"Well . . . =
it
was something . . . something that I don't believe he liked . . . something
that may interfere with his marrying me."
"What did you
say?"
"I told him I
was going to marry you!"
Wally spun round.=
At
the same time he leaped in the air. The effect of the combination of moveme=
nts
was to cause him to stagger across the room and, after two or three impromp=
tu
dance steps which would have interested Mrs Peagrim, to clutch at the
mantelpiece to save himself from falling. Jill watched him with quiet appro=
val.
"Why, that's
wonderful, Wally! Is that another of your morning exercises? If Freddie doe=
s go
into vaudeville, you ought to get him to let you join the troupe."
Wally was blinkin=
g at
her from the mantelpiece.
"Jill!"=
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"What--what-=
-what
. . . !"
"Now, don't =
talk
like Freddie, even if you are going into vaudeville with him."
"You said you
were going to marry me?"
"I said I was
going to marry you!"
"But--do you
mean . . . ?"
The mischief died=
out
of Jill's eyes. She met his gaze frankly and seriously.
"The lumber's
gone, Wally," she said. "But my heart isn't empty. It's quite, qu=
ite
full, and it's going to be full for ever and ever and ever."
Wally left the
mantelpiece, and came slowly towards her.
"Jill!"=
He
choked. "Jill!"
Suddenly he pounc=
ed
on her and swung her off her feet. She gave a little breathless cry.
"Wally! I
thought you didn't approve of cavemen!"
"This,"
said Wally, "is just another new morning exercise I've thought of!&quo=
t;
Jill sat down,
gasping.
"Are you goi=
ng
to do that often, Wally?"
"Every day f=
or
the rest of my life!"
"Goodness!&q=
uot;
"Oh, you'll =
get
used to it. It'll grow on you."
"You don't t=
hink
I am making a mistake marrying you?"
"No, no! I've
given the matter a lot of thought, and . . . in fact, no, no!"
"No," s=
aid
Jill thoughtfully. "I think you'll make a good husband. I mean, suppos=
e we
ever want the piano moved or something . . . Wally!" she broke off sud=
denly.
"You have our
ear."
"Come out on=
the
roof," said Jill. "I want to show you something funny."
Wally followed her
out. They stood at the parapet together, looking down.
"There!"
said Jill, pointing.
Wally looked puzz=
led.
"I see many
things, but which is the funny one?"
"Why, all th=
ose
people. Over there--and there--and there. Scuttering about and thinking they
know everything there is to know, and not one of them has the least idea th=
at I
am the happiest girl on earth!"
"Or that I'm=
the
happiest man! Their ignorance is--what is the word I want? Abysmal. They do=
n't
know what it's like to stand beside you and see that little dimple in your
chin. . . . They don't know you've got a little dimple in your chin. . . . =
They
don't know. . . . They don't know . . . Why, I don't suppose a single one of
them even knows that I'm just going to kiss you!"
"Those girls=
in
that window over there do," said Jill. "They are watching us like
hawks."
"Let 'em!&qu=
ot;
said Wally briefly.
THE END
While I left seve=
ral
variant spellings such as vodevil and bethrothed, I did correct the followi=
ng:
Fixed: course/coa=
rse
in Yet somehow this course, rough person in front of him never seemed to al=
low
him a word
Fixed: awfuly/awf=
ully
in: He's awfuly good to girls who've worked in shows for him before.
Fixed:
Pullfan/Pullman Those Pullfan porters on parade!"
Fixed: a large ty=
po
in the print edition, which originally read: "Yes. I've got the most
damned attack of indigestion." Derek should recline in the arm-chair w=
hich
he had vacated; dinner!"